THE  BANDBOX 


LOUIS  JOSEPH  VANCE 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  BANDBOX 


BY  LOUIS  JOSEPH  VANCE 


THE  BANDBOX 
CYNTHIA-OF-THE-MINOTE 
No  MAN'S  LAND 
THE  FOKTUNE  HUNTER 
THE  POOL  OF  FLAME 
THE  BRONZE  BELL 
THE  BLACK  BAG 
THE  BRASS  BOWL 
THE  PRIVATE  WAH 
TERENCE  O'RotraKE 


"Now,  sir!"  she  exclaimed,  turning 

FRONTISPIECE.     See  Page  83 


The  Bandbox 


BY  LOUIS  JOSEPH  VANCE 


Author  of  "The  Brass  Bowl,"    "The  Bronze  Bell," 
'^Cynthia-of-the-Minute."  etc. 


WITH  FOUR  ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY  ARTHUR  I.  KELLER 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1911,  1912, 
Br  Louis  JOSEPH  VANCE. 


All  rights  reserved,  including  those  of  translation  into  foreign 
languages,  including  the  Scandinavian 

Published,  April,  1912 
Reprinted,  April,  1912  (three  tunes) 


fS 

3SA3 


TO 

LEWIS  BUDDY  III 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTBB  PAOB 

I    INTRODUCING  MR.  IFF 1 

II    THE  BANDBOX 14 

III  TWINS      . 26 

IV  QUEENSTOWN 43 

V     ISMAY? 65 

VI    IFF? 87 

VII    STOLE  AWAY! 109 

VIII    THE  WRONG  Box 128 

IX    A  LIKELY  STORY 158 

X    DEAD  O'  NIGHT 177 

XI    THE  COLD  GREY  DAWN 194 

XII    WON'T  You  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOUR?     .  216 

XIII  WRECK  ISLAND 233 

XIV  THE  STRONG-BOX 254 

XV    THE  ENEMY'S  HAND 275 

XVI    NINETY  MINUTES 295 

XVII    HOLOCAUST  .  312 


THE    BANDBOX 


INTRODUCING  MR.   IFF 

\T  half -past  two  of  a  sunny,  sultry  afternoon  late 
•L  JL  in  the  month  of  August,  Mr.  Benjamin  Staff  sat 
at  table  in  the  dining-room  of  the  Authors'  Club, 
moodily  munching  a  morsel  of  cheese  and  a  segment  of 
cast-iron  biscuit  and  wondering  what  he  must  do  to 
be  saved  from  the  death-in-life  of  sheer  ennui. 

A  long,  lank  gentleman,  surprisingly  thin,  of  a  slightly 
saturnine  cast:  he  was  not  only  unhappy,  he  looked 
it.  He  was  alone  and  he  was  lonely;  he  was  an  Ameri 
can  and  a  man  of  sentiment  (though  he  did  n't  look 
that)  and  he  wanted  to  go  home;  to  sum  up,  he  found 
himself  in  love  and  in  London  at  one  and  the  same  time, 
and  felt  precisely  as  ill  at  ease  in  the  one  as  in  the  other 
of  these,  to  him,  exotic  circumstances. 

Inconceivable  as  it  may  seem  that  any  rational  man 
should  yearn  for  New  York  in  August,  that  and  noth 
ing  less  was  what  Staff  wanted  with  all  his  heart. 
He  wanted  to  go  home  and  swelter  and  be  swindled 


2  THE    BANDBOX 

by  taxicab  drivers  and  snubbed  by  imported  head- 
waiters;  he  wanted  to  patronise  the  subway  at  peril 
of  asphyxiation  and  to  walk  down  Fifth  Avenue  at 
that  witching  hour  when  electric  globes  begin  to  dot 
the  dusk  of  evening  —  pale  moons  of  a  world  of  steel 
and  stone;  he  wanted  to  ride  in  elevators  instead  of 
lifts,  in  trolley-cars  instead  of  trams;  he  wanted  to 
go  to  a  ball-game  at  the  Polo  Grounds,  to  dine  dressed 
as  he  pleased,  to  insult  his  intelligence  with  a  roof- 
garden  show  if  he  felt  so  disposed,  and  to  see  for  him 
self  just  how  much  of  Town  had  been  torn  down  in 
the  two  months  of  his  exile  and  what  they  were  going 
to  put  up  in  its  place.  He  wanted,  hi  short,  his  own 
people;  more  specifically  he  wanted  just  one  of  them, 
meaning  to  marry  her  if  she  'd  have  him. 

Now  to  be  homesick  and  lovesick  all  at  once  is  a 
tremendously  disturbing  state  of  affairs.  So  influenced, 
the  strongest  men  are  prone  to  folly.  Staff,  for  in 
stance,  had  excellent  reason  to  doubt  the  advisability 
of  leaving  London  just  then,  with  an  unfinished  play 
on  his  hands;  but  he  was  really  no  more  than  a  mere, 
normal  human  being,  and  he  did  want  very  badly  to 
go  home.  If  it  was  a  sharp  struggle,  it  was  a  short 
one  that  prefaced  his  decision. 

Of  a  sudden  he  rose,  called  for  his  bill  and  paid  it, 
called  for  his  hat  and  stick,  got  them,  and  resolutely  — 


INTRODUCING    MR.    IFF       3 

yet  with  a  furtive  air,  as  one  who  would  throw  a 
dogging  conscience  off  the  scent  —  fled  the  premises 
of  his  club,  shaping  a  course  through  Whitehall  and 
Charing  Cross  to  Cockspur  Street,  where,  with  the 
unerring  instinct  of  a  homing  pigeon,  he  dodged  has 
tily  into  the  booking-office  of  a  steamship  company. 

Now  Mystery  is  where  one  finds  it,  and  Romantic 
Adventure  is  as  a  rule  to  be  come  upon  infesting  the 
same  identical  premises.  Mr.  Staff  was  not  seeking 
mysteries  and  the  last  role  in  the  world  in  which  he 
could  fancy  himself  was  that  of  Romantic  Adventurer. 
But  in  retrospect  he  can  see  quite  clearly  that  it  was 
there,  in  the  humdrum  and  prosaic  setting  of  a  steam 
ship  booking-office,  that  he  first  stumbled  (all  unwit 
tingly)  into  the  toils  of  his  Great  Adventure. 

When  he  entered,  there  was  but  one  other  person  on 
the  outer  or  public  side  of  the  booking-counter;  and 
he,  sticking  close  in  a  far  corner  and  inaudibly  con 
ferring  with  a  clerk,  seemed  so  slight  and  unpre 
tending  a  body  that  Staff  overlooked  his  existence 
altogether  until  circumstances  obliged  him  to  recog 
nise  it. 

The  ignored  person,  on  the  other  hand,  showed  an 
instant  interest  in  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Staff.  You 
might  have  thought  that  he  had  been  waiting  for  the 
latter  to  come  hi  —  absurd  as  this  might  seem,  in  view 


4  THE    BANDBOX 

of  the  fact  that  Staff  had  made  up  his  mind  to  book  for 
home  only  within  the  last  quarter-hour.  None  the 
less,  on  sight  of  him  this  other  patron  of  the  company, 
who  had  seemed  till  then  to  be  of  two  minds  as  to  what 
he  wanted,  straightened  up  and  bent  a  freshened  inter 
est  on  the  cabin-plot  which  the  clerk  had  spread  out 
upon  the  counter  for  his  advisement.  And  a  moment 
after  Staff  had  audibly  stated  his  wishes,  the  other 
prodded  a  certain  spot  of  the  chart  with  a  thin  and 
fragile  forefinger. 

"  I  '11  take  this  one,"  he  said  quietly. 

" Upper 'r  lower?"  enquired  his  clerk. 

"Lower." 

"Then-Q,"  said  the  clerk.  .    .    . 

Meanwhile  Staff  had  caught  the  eye  of  an  impreg 
nable  young  Englishman  behind  the  counter;  and, 
the  latter  coming  forward,  he  opened  negotiations  with 
a  succinct  statement: 

"  I  want  to  book  on  the  Autocratic,  sailing  tomorrow 
from  Liverpool,  if  I  'm  not  mistaken." 

"Quite  so,"  said  his  clerk,  not  without  condescen 
sion.  "  For  yourself,  may  I  awsk  ?  " 

"For  myself  alone." 

"Then-Q."    The  clerk  fetched  a  cabin-plot. 

"I'm  afraid,  sir,"  he  said,  removing  a  pencil  from 
behind  his  ear  the  better  to  make  his  meaning  clear, 


INTRODUCING    MR.    IFF       5 

"there's  not  much  choice.  It's  quite  late  to  book,  you 
know;  and  this  is  the  rush  season  for  westbound  traffic; 
everything's  just  about  full  up." 

"I  understand;  but  still  you  can  make  room  for  me 
somewhere,  I  hope." 

"Oh,  yes.  Quite  so,  indeed.  It's  only  a  question  of 
what  you'd  like.  Now  we  have  a  cabine  de  luxe  — " 

"Not  for  me,"  said  Staff  firmly. 

"Then-Q.  .  .  .  The  only  other  accommodation 
I  can  offer  you  is  a  two-berth  stateroom  on  the 
main-deck." 

"An  outside  room?" 

"Yes,  sir.  You  can  see  for  yourself.  Here  it  is: 
berths  432  and  433.  You  '11  find  it  quite  cosy,  I  'm 
sure." 

Staff  nodded,  eyeing  the  cubicle  indicated  by  the 
pencil-point. 

"  That  '11  do,"  said  he.    "  I  '11  take  it." 

"  Then-Q.    Upper  'r  lower  berth,  sir  ?  " 

"Both,"  said  Staff,  trying  not  to  look  conscious  — 
and  succeeding. 

"Both,  sir?"  —  in  tones  of  pained  expostulation. 

"Both!"  —  reiterated  in  a  manner  that  challenged 
curiosity. 

"Ah,"  said  the  clerk  wearily,  "but,  you  see,  I  thought 
I  understood  you  to  say  you  were  alone." 


6  THE    BANDBOX 

"I  did;  but  I  want  privacy." 

"I  see.  Then-Q."  —  as  who  should  say:  Another 
mad  Amayrican. 

With  this  the  clerk  took  himself  off  to  procure  a 
blank  ticket. 

While  he  waited,  Staff  was  entertained  by  snatches 
of  a  colloquy  at  the  far  end  of  the  counter,  where 
the  other  patron  was  being  catechised  as  to  his  pedigree 
by  the  other  booking-clerk.  What  he  heard  ran  some 
thing  to  the  following  effect: 

"What  did  you  say  the  name  was,  sir  ?" 

"rename?" 

"If  you  please — " 

"What  name?" 

"Your  name,  sir." 

"I  did  n't  say,  did  I?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Ah!  I  thought  not." 

Pause;  then  the  clerk,  patiently:  "Do  you  mind 
giving  me  your  name,  sir,  so  that  I  may  fill  in  your 
ticket?" 

"I'd  r'ally  rather  not;  but  seein'  as  it's  you  and 
you  make  a  point  of  it  —  Iff." 

Pause.  .   .   .  "Beg  pardon?" 

"Iff." 

"If  what,  sir?" 


INTRODUCING    MR.    IFF       7 

"I-double-F,  Iff:  a  name,  not  a  joke.  I-F-F  — 
William  Howard  Iff.  W.  H.  Iff,  Whiff:  joke." 

"Ow-w?" 

"But  you  need  n't  laugh." 

With  dignity:  "I  was  not  intending  to  laugh,  sir." 

Staff  could  hardly  refrain  from  refreshing  himself 
with  a  glance  at  the  individual  so  singularly  labelled. 
Appraising  him  covertly,  he  saw  a  man  whose  stature 
was  quite  as  much  shorter  than  the  normal  as  his  own 
was  longer,  but  hardly  less  thin.  Indeed,  Staff  was  hi 
the  habit  of  defining  his  own  style  of  architecture  as 
Gothic,  and  with  reasonable  excuse;  but  reviewing 
the  physical  geography  of  Mr.  Iff,  the  word  emacia 
tion  bobbed  to  the  surface  of  the  literary  mentality: 
Iff  was  really  astonishingly  slight  of  build.  Otherwise 
he  was  rather  round-shouldered;  his  head  was  small, 
bird-like,  thinly  thatched  with  hah*  of  a  faded  tow 
colour;  his  face  was  sensitively  tinted  with  the  faintest 
of  flushes  beneath  a  skin  of  natural  pallor,  and  wore 
an  expression  curiously  naive  and  yet  shrewd  —  an 
effect  manufactured  by  setting  the  eyes  of  a  child,  round 
and  dimly  blue,  in  a  mask  of  weathered  maturity. 

Now  while  Staff  was  receiving  this  impression,  Mr. 
Iff  looked  sharply  round;  their  glances  crossed.  Pri 
marily  embarrassed  to  be  caught  rudely  staring,  Staff 
was  next  and  thoroughly  shocked  to  detect  a  distinct 


8  THE    BANDBOX 

if  momentary  eclipse  of  one  of  Mr.  Iff's  pale  blue  eyes. 
Bluntly,  openly,  deliberately,  Mr.  Iff  winked  at  Mr. 
Staff,  and  then,  having  accomplished  his  amazement 
and  discomfiture,  returned  promptly,  twinkling,  to 
the  baiting  of  his  clerk. 

"Your  age,  sir?" 

Mr.  Iff  enquired  in  simple  surprise:  "Do  you  really 
care  to  know  ?  " 

"It's  required,  sir,  by  the  — " 

"Oh,  well  —  if  I  must!  But,  mind  you,  strictly  as 
man  to  man:  you  may  write  me  down  a  freeborn 
American  citizen,  entitled  to  vote  and  more'n  half 
white." 

"Beg  pardon?" 

"I  say,  I  am  an  adult  — " 

"Oh!"  The  clerk  wrote;  then,  bored,  resumed: 
"Married  or  single,  please?" 

"I'm  a  spinster — " 

"O-w?" 

"Honestly  —  neither  married  nor  unmarried." 

"  Then-Q  "  —  resignedly.    "  Your  business  —  ?  " 

But  here  Staff's  clerk  touched  the  exasperated  cate- 
chist  on  the  shoulder  and  said  something  inaudible. 
The  response,  while  equally  inaudible,  seemed  to  con 
vey  a  sense  of  profound  personal  shock.  Staff  was 
conscious  that  Mr.  Iff's  clerk  glanced  reproachfully  in 


INTRODUCING    MR.    IFF        9 

his  direction,  as  if  to  suggest  that  he  wouldn't  have 
believed  it  of  him. 

Divining  that  he  and  Mr.  Iff  were  bargaining  for  the 
same  accommodations,  Staff  endeavoured  to  assume  an 
attitude  of  distinguished  obliviousness  to  the  entire 
proceeding;  and  would  have  succeeded  but  for  the 
immediate  and  impatient  action  of  Mr.  Iff. 

That  latter,  seizing  the  situation,  glanced  askance  at 
dignified  Mr.  Staff,  then  smiled  a  whimsical  smile, 
cocked  his  small  head  to  one  side  and  approached  him 
with  an  open  and  ingenuous  ah*. 

"  If  it 's  only  a  question  of  which  berth,"  said  he,  "  I  'm 
quite  willing  to  forfeit  my  option  on  the  lower,  Mr. 
Staff." 

That  gentleman  started  and  stared. 

"Oh,  lord,  man  I"  said  Iff  tolerantly —  "as  if  your 
portrait  had  n't  been  published  more  times  than  you 
can  remember!  —  as  if  all  the  world  were  unaware  of 
Benjamin  Staff,  novelist  1" 

There  was  subtle  flattery  hi  this;  and  flattery  (we 
are  told)  will  warm  the  most  austere  of  authors  — 
which  Staff  was  not.  He  said  "Oh!"  and  smiled  his 
slow,  wry  smile;  and  Mr.  Iff,  remarking  these  symptoms 
of  a  thaw  with  interest  and  encouragement,  pressed 
his  point. 

"I  don't  mind  an  upper,  really  —  only  chose  the 


10  THE    BANDBOX 

lower  because  the  choice  was  mine,  at  the  moment. 
If  you  prefer  it  — " 

"The  trouble  is,"  Staff  interrupted,  "I  want  the 
whole  room." 

"Oh!  .    .   .  Friend  with  you?" 

"No;  but  I  had  some  notion  of  doing  a  little  work  on 
the  way  over." 

"Writing?  I  see.  But  if  that's  all—  !"  Mr.  Iff 
routed  a  negligible  quibble  with  an  airy  flirt  of  his 
delicate  hand.  "Trust  me;  you'll  hardly  ever  be 
reminded  of  my  existence  —  I'm  that  quiet.  And 
besides,  I  spend  most  of  my  time  in  the  smoking-room. 
And  I  don't  snore,  and  I'm  never  seasick.  .  .  .  By 
the  way,"  he  added  anxiously,  "do  or  are  you?" 

"Never—" 

"  Then  we  '11  get  along  famously.  I  '11  cheerfully  take 
the  upper,  and  even  should  I  tumble  out  on  top  of  you, 
you'd  never  know  it:  my  weight  is  nothing  —  hardly 
that.  Now  what  d'  you  say?  Is  it  a  go  ?  " 

"But  —  I  don't  know  you  —  " 

"Business  of  making  a  noise  like  an  Englishman!" 
commented  Mr.  Iff  with  bitter  scorn. 

" — well  enough  to  accept  such  a  favour  from  you. 
I'll  take  second  choice  myself  —  the  upper,  I  mean." 

"You  won't;  but  we'll  settle  that  on  shipboard," 
said  Mr.  Iff  promptly.  "As  for  knowing  me  —  busi- 


INTRODUCING    MR.    IFF      11 

ness  of  introducing  myself.  Mr.  Staff,  I  want  you  to 
shake  hands  with  my  friend,  Mr.  Iff.  W.  H.  Iff,  Whiff: 
sometimes  so-called:  merry  wheeze  based  on  my 
typographical  make-up;  once  a  joke,  now  so  grey  with 
age  I  generally  pull  it  myself,  thus  saving  new  acquaint 
ances  the  mental  strain.  Practical  philanthropy  — 
what  ?  Whim  of  mine." 

"Indeed?" 

"Believe  me.  You've  no  notion  how  folks  suffer  in 
the  first  throes  of  that  giddy  pun.  And  then  when  it 
falls  flat  —  naturally  /  can't  laugh  like  a  fool  at  it 
any  longer  — blooie!"  said  Mr.  Iff  with  expression  — 
"like  that  —  blooie!  —  they  do  feel  so  cheap.  Where 
fore  I  maintain  I  do  humanity  a  service  when  I  beat 
it  to  that  moth-eaten  joke.  You  follow  me  ?  " 

Staff  laughed. 

"Then  it's  all  settled.  Good  1  We  shan't  be  in  one 
another's  way.  You'll  see." 

"Unless  you  talk  in  your  sleep,  too." 

Mr.  Iff  looked  unspeakable  reproach.  "You'll 
soon  get  accustomed  to  me,"  he  said,  brightening  — 
"won't  mind  my  merry  prattle  any  more'n  the  song  of 
a  giddy  humming-bird." 

He  turned  and  saw  their  booking-clerks  in  patient 
waiting  behind  the  counter.  "Ah,  there  you  are,  eh? 
Well,  it 'sail  settled.  ..." 


12  THE    BANDBOX 

Thus  was  the  thing  accomplished. 

And  shortly  thereafter  these  two  paused  in  parting 
at  the  door. 

"Going  my  way?"  enquired  Mr.  Iff. 

Staff  named  whatever  destination  he  had  in  mind. 

"Sony.  I  go  t'other  way.  Take  care  of  yourself. 
See  you  tomorrow." 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Staff,  and  took  himself  briskly  off. 

But  Mr.  Iff  did  not  at  once  go  in  the  opposite  direc 
tion.  In  fact,  he  moved  no  more  than  a  door  or  two 
away,  and  then  stopped,  apparently  fascinated  by  an 
especially  stupid  shop-window  show. 

He  had  very  quick  eyes,  had  Mr.  Iff,  so  alert  and 
observant  that  they  had  made  him  alive  to  a  circum 
stance  which  had  altogether  escaped  Staff's  notice  —  a 
trifling  incident  that  took  place  just  as  they  were  on 
the  point  of  parting. 

While  still  they  were  standing  in  the  doorway,  a 
motor-cab,  plunging  down  Haymarket,  had  swooped 
in  a  wide  curve  as  if  meaning  to  pull  in  at  the  curb  in 
front  of  the  steamship  company's  office.  The  cab 
carried  a  solitary  passenger  —  a  remarkably  pretty 
young  woman  —  and  on  its  roof  a  remarkably  large 
and  ornate  bandbox. 

It  was,  in  fact,  the  bandbox  which  had  first  fixed  the 
interest  of  Mr.  Iff.  Only  an  introspective  vision,  indeed, 


INTRODUCING    MR.    IFF      13 

such  as  that  of  the  imaginative  and  thoughtful  Mr. 
Staff,  could  have  overlooked  the  approach  of  a  band 
box  so  big  and  upstanding,  so  profusely  beflowered  and 
so  prominently  displayed. 

Now  before  the  cab  could  stop,  its  fare,  who  had  been 
bending  forward  and  peering  out  of  the  window  as  if 
anxious  to  recognise  her  destination,  started  still  far 
ther  forward,  seized  the  speaking-tube  and  spoke  into 
its  mouthpiece  in  a  manner  of  sharp  urgency.  And 
promptly  the  driver  swerved  out  from  the  curb  and 
swung  his  car  away  down  Pall  Mall. 

If  it  was  mere  inquisitiveness  that  held  Mr.  Iff  rooted 
to  the  spot,  gaping  at  that  uninteresting  window  show, 
it  served  to  discover  him  in  the  guise  of  an  admirably 
patient  person.  Fully  fifteen  minutes  elapsed  before 
the  return  of  the  motor-cab  was  signalled  unmistakably 
by  the  blatant  bandbox  bobbing  back  high  above  the 
press  of  traffic.  And  when  this  happened,  Mr.  Iff  found 
some  further  business  with  the  steamship  company, 
and  quietly  and  unobtrusively  slipped  back  into  the 
booking-office. 

As  he  did  so  the  cab  stopped  at  the  curb  and  the 
pretty  young  woman  jumped  out  and  followed  Mr.  Iff 
across  the  threshold  —  noticing  him  no  more  than 
had  Mr.  Staff,  to  begin  with. 


II 

THE  BANDBOX 

IN  the  playhouses  of  France,  a  hammering  on  the 
stage  alone  heralds  the  rising  of  the  curtain  to  dis 
close  illusory  realms  of  romance.  Precisely  so  with  Mr. 
Staff,  upon  the  door  of  whose  lodging,  at  nine  o'clock 
the  next  morning,  a  knocking  announced  the  first 
overt  move  against  his  peace  of  mind. 

At  that  time,  Staff,  all  unconscious  of  his  honourable 
peril,  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  of  the 
inner  room  (his  lodgings  comprised  two)  and  likewise 
in  the  approximate  geographical  centre  of  a  chaotic 
assemblage  of  assorted  wearing  apparel  and  other 
personal  impedimenta. 

He  was  wondering,  confusedly,  how  in  thunderation 
he  was  to  manage  to  cram  all  that  confounded  truck 
into  the  limited  amount  of  trunk  space  at  his  command. 
He  was  also  wondering,  resentfully  in  the  names  of  a 
dozen  familiar  spirits,  where  he  had  put  his  pipe:  it's 
simply  maddening,  the  way  a  fellow's  pipe  will  persist 
in  getting  lost  at  such  critical  times  as  when  he's 

14 


THE    BANDBOX  15 

packing  up  to  catch  a  train  with  not  a  minute  to 
spare.  ...  In  short,  so  preoccupied  was  Staff  that 
the  knocking  had  to  be  repeated  before  he  became 
objectively  alive  to  it. 

Then,  confidentially,  he  said:  "What  the  devil  now?" 

In  louder  tones  calculated  to  convey  an  impression 
of  intense  impatience,  he  cried:  "Come  in!" 

He  heard  the  outer  door  open,  and  immediately, 
upon  an  impulse  esoteric  even  in  his  own  understanding, 
he  chose  to  pretend  to  be  extravagantly  busy  —  as 
busy  as  by  rights  he  should  have  been.  For  a  minute 
or  longer  he  acted  most  vividly  the  part  of  a  man  madly 
bent  on  catching  his  train  though  he  were  to  perish  of 
the  attempt.  And  this  despite  a  suspicion  that  he 
played  to  a  limited  audience  of  one,  and  that  one  un- 
appreciative  of  the  finer  phases  of  everyday  histrionic 
impersonation:  an  audience  answering  to  the  name  of 
Milly,  whose  lowly  station  of  life  was  that  of  housemaid- 
in-lodgings  and  whose  imagination  was  as  ill-nourished 
and  sluggish  as  might  be  expected  of  one  whose  wages 
were  two-and-six  a  week. 

Remembering  this  in  time,  the  novelty  of  make- 
believe  palled  on  Staff.  Not  that  alone,  but  he  could 
hear  Milly  insisting  in  accents  not  in  the  least  apolo 
getic:  "Beg  pardon,  sir  .  .  .  " 

He  paused  in  well-feigned  surprise  and  looked  enquir- 


16  THE    BANDBOX 

ingly  over  his  shoulder,  as  though  to  verify  a  surmise 
that  somebody  had  spoken.  Such  proving  to  be  the 
case,  he  turned  round  to  confront  Milly  —  Milly  true 
to  type,  wearing  a  grimy  matutinal  apron,  an  expres 
sion  half  sleepy,  half  sullen,  and  a  horrid  soot  smudge 
on  her  ripe,  red,  right  cheek. 

In  this  guise  (so  sedulously  does  life  itself  ape  the 
conventions  of  its  literature  and  drama)  Milly  looked 
as  lifelike  as  though  viewed  through  the  illusion  of 
footlights.  Otherwise,  as  Staff  never  failed  to  be  grati 
fied  to  observe,  she  differed  radically  from  the  stock 
article  of  our  stage.  For  one  thing,  she  refrained  from 
dropping  her  ditches  and  stumbling  over  them  on  her 
first  entrance  in  order  merely  to  win  a  laugh  and  so 
lift  her  little  role  from  the  common  rut  of  "lines"  to 
the  dignity  of  "a  bit."  For  another,  she  seldom  if 
ever  brandished  that  age-honoured  wand  of  her  office, 
a  bedraggled  feather-duster.  Nor  was  she  by  any  means 
in  love  with  the  tenant  of  the  fust-floor-front. 

But  though  Staff  was  grateful  for  Milly  because  of 
this  strong  and  unconventional  individuality  of  hers, 
he  wasn't  at  all  pleased  to  be  interrupted,  and  he  made 
nothing  whatever  of  the  ostensible  excuse  for  the  inter 
ruption;  the  latter  being  a  very  large  and  brilliantly 
illuminated  bandbox,  which  Milly  was  offering  him  in 
pantomime. 


THE    BANDBOX  17 

"It  have  just  come,"  said  Milly  calmly,  in  response 
to  his  enquiring  stare.  "Where  would  you  wish  me  to 
put  it,  sir?" 

"Put  what?" 

Milly  gesticulated  eloquently  with  the  bandbox. 

"That  thing?"  said  Staff  with  scorn. 

"Yessir." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  put  it  anywhere.  Take  it 
away." 

"But  it's  for  you,  sir." 

"  Impossible.  Some  mistake.  Please  don't  bother  — 
just  take  it  away.  There 's  a  good  girl." 

Milly's  disdain  of  this  blandishment  was  plainly 
visible  in  the  added  elevation  of  her  already  sufficiently 
tucked-up  nose. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,"  she  persisted  coldly,  "but  it's 
got  your  nime  on  it,  and  the  boy  as  left  it  just  no\r 
asked  if  you  lived  here." 

Staff's  frown  portrayed  indignation,  incredulity  and 
impatience. 

"  Mistake,  I  tell  you.  I  have  n't  been  buying  any 
millinery.  Absurd  1 ' ' 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  you  can  see  as  it's  addressed 
to  you." 

It  was :  the  box  being  held  out  for  examination,  Staff 
saw  plainly  that  it  was  tagged  with  a  card  inscribed  in 


18  THE    BANDBOX 

fashionably  slapdash  feminine  handwriting  with  what 
was  unquestionably  the  name  and  local  address  of 
Benjamin  Staff,  Esq. 

Because  of  this,  he  felt  called  upon  to  subject  the  box 
to  more  minute  inspection. 

It  was  nothing  more  nor  less  than  the  everyday 
milliners'  hat-box  of  commerce:  a  capacious  edifice  of 
stout  pasteboard  neatly  plastered  with  wall-paper  in 
whose  design  narrow  stripes  of  white  alternated  with 
aggressive  stripes  of  brown,  the  whole  effectively  setting 
off  an  abundance  of  purple  blossoms  counterfeiting  no 
flower  known  to  botanists.  And  one  gibbous  side  was 
further  decorated  with  bold  black  script  advertising 
the  establishment  of  its  origin. 

"Maison  Lucille,  New  Bond  Street,  West,"  Staff  read 
aloud,  completely  bewildered.  "But  I  never  heard  of 
the  d — the  place!" 

Helplessly  he  sought  Milly's  eyes,  and  helpfully 
Milly  rose  to  the  occasion. 

"Nossir,"  said  she;  and  that  was  all. 

"I  know  nothing  whatever  about  the  thing,"  Staff 
declared  severely.  "  It 's  all  a  mistake.  Take  it 
away  —  it  '11  be  sent  for  as  soon  as  the  error 's 
discovered." 

A  glimmer  of  intelligence  shone  luminous  in  Milly's 
eyes.  "Mebbe,"  she  suggested  under  inspiration  of 


THE    BANDBOX  19 

curiosity  —  "Mebbe  if  you  was  to  open  it,  you'd  find 
a  note  or  —  or  something." 

"  Bright  girl ! "  applauded  Staff.  "  You  open  it.  I  'm 
too  busy  —  packing  up  —  no  time  — " 

And  realising  how  swiftly  the  golden  minutes  were 
fleeting  beyond  recall,  he  cast  desperately  about  for 
his  pipe. 

By  some  miracle  he  chanced  to  find  it,  and  so  resumed 
packing. 

Behind  him,  Milly  made  noises  with  tissue-paper. 

Presently  he  heard  a  smothered  "O  sir!"  and  looked 
round  to  discover  the  housemaid  in  an  attitude  of 
unmitigated  adoration  before  what  he  could  not  deny 
was  a  perfect  dream  of  a  hat  —  the  sort  of  a  hat  that 
only  a  woman  or  a  society  reporter  could  do  justice  to. 
In  his  vision  it  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  a  Gains 
borough  with  all  modern  improvements  —  as  most 
big  hats  do  to  most  men.  Briefly,  it  was  big  and  black 
and  trimmed  with  an  atmosphere  of  costly  simplicity, 
a  monstrous  white  "willow"  plume  and  a  huge  buckle 
of  brilliants.  It  impressed  him,  hazily,  as  just  the 
very  hat  to  look  ripping  on  an  ash-blonde.  Aside  from 
this  he  was  aware  of  no  sensation  other  than  one  of 
aggravated  annoyance. 

Milly,  to  the  reverse  extreme,  was  charmed  to  dis 
traction,  thrilled  to  the  core  of  her  and  breathless  — 


20  THE    BANDBOX 

though  by  no  means  dumb.  Women  are  never  dumb 
with  admiration. 

"O  sir!"  she  breathed  in  ecstasy  —  "it's  a  real 
creashun!" 

"Daresay,"  Staff  conceded  sourly.  "Did  you  find 
a  note?" 

"  And  the  price-tag,  sir — it  says  twen-ty  five  pounds ! " 

"I  hope  there's  a  receipted  bill,  then.  .  .  .  Do 
you  see  anything  remotely  resembling  a  note  —  or 
something  ?  " 

With  difficulty  subduing  her  transports  —  "I'll  see, 
sir,"  said  Milly. 

Grunting  with  exasperation,  Staff  bent  over  a  trunk 
and  stuffed  things  into  it  until  Milly  committed  her 
self  to  the  definite  announcement:  "I  don't  seem  to 
find  nothing,  sir." 

"Look  again,  please." 

Again  Milly  pawed  the  tissue-paper. 

"There  ain't  nothing  at  all,  sir,"  she  declared  finally. 

Staff  stood  up,  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and 
champed  the  stem  of  his  pipe  —  scowling. 

"It  is  a  bit  odd,  sir,  isn't  it?  —  having  this  sent  to 
you  like  this  and  you  knowing  nothing  at  all  about 
it!" 

Staff  said  something  indistinguishable  because  of  the 
obstructing  pipe-stem. 


THE    BANDBOX  21 

"It's  perfectly  beautiful,  sir  —  a  won'erful  hat, 
really." 

"The  devil  fly  away  with  it  I" 

"Beg  pardon,  sir?" 

"I  said,  I'm  simply  crazy  about  it,  myself." 

"Oh,  did  you,  sir?" 

"Please  put  it  back  and  tie  it  up." 

"Yessir."  Reluctantly  Milly  restored  the  creation 
to  its  tissue-paper  nest.  "And  what  would  you  wish 
me  to  do  with  it  now,  sir?"  she  resumed  when  at 
length  the  ravishing  vision  was  hidden  away. 

"  Do  with  it  ?  "  stormed  the  vexed  gentleman.  "  I 
don't  care  what  the  d — ickens  you  do  with  it.  It  is  n't 
my  hat.  Take  it  away.  Throw  it  into  the  street. 
Send  it  back  to  the  place  it  came  from.  Give  it 
...  or,  wait!" 

Pausing  for  breath  and  thought,  he  changed  his  mind. 
The  hat  was  too  valuable  to  be  treated  with  disrespect, 
no  matter  who  was  responsible  for  the  mistake.  Staff 
felt  morally  obligated  to  secure  its  return  to  the  Maison 
Lucille. 

"Look  here,  Milly  ..." 

"Yessir?" 

"I'll  just  telephone  .    .    .  No!  Hah*  a  minute!" 

He  checked,  on  the  verge  of  yielding  to  an  insane 
impulse.  Being  a  native  of  New  York,  it  had  been  his 


22  THE    BANDBOX 

instinctive  thought  to  call  up  the  hat-shop  and  demand 
the  return  of  its  delivery-boy.  Fortunately  the  in 
stinct  of  a  true  dramatist  moved  him  to  sketch  hastily 
the  ground-plot  of  the  suggested  tragedy. 

In  Act  I  ( Time:  the  Present)  he  saw  himself  bearding 
the  telephone  in  its  lair  —  that  is,  in  the  darkest  and 
least  accessible  recess  of  the  ground-floor  hallway.  In 
firm,  manful  accents,  befitting  an  intrepid  soul,  he 
details  a  number  to  the  central  operator  —  and  meekly 
submits  to  an  acidulated  correction  of  his  Amurrikin 
accent. 

Act  II  (fifteen  minutes  have  elapsed) :  He  is  clinging 
desperately  to  the  receiver,  sustained  by  hope  alone 
while  he  attends  sympathetically  to  the  sufferings  of 
an  English  lady  trying  to  get  in  communication  with 
the  Army  and  Navy  Stores. 

Act  III  (ten  minutes  later) :  He  has  exhausted  him 
self  grinding  away  at  an  obsolete  rotary  bell-call. 
Abruptly  his  ears  are  enchanted  by  a  far,  thin,  frigid 
moan.  It  says:  "Are  you  theah?"  Responding  sav 
agely  "NO!"  he  dashes  the  receiver  back  into  its  hook 
and  flings  away  to  discover  that  he  has  lost  both  train 
and  steamer.  Tag  line:  For  this  is  London  in  the 
Twentieth  Century.  Curtain:  End  of  the  Play.  .  .  . 

Disenchanted  by  consideration  of  this  tentative 
synopsis,  the  playwright  consulted  his  watch.  Already 


THE    BANDBOX  23 

the  incident  of  the  condemnable  bandbox  had  eaten 
up  much  invaluable  time.  He  would  see  himself  doomed 
to  unending  perdition  if  he  would  submit  to  further 
hindrance  on  its  behalf. 

"Milly,"  said  he  with  decision,  "take  that  .  .  . 
thing  down-stairs,  and  tell  Mrs.  Gigg  to  telephone  the 
hat-shop  to  call  for  it." 

"Yessir." 

"And  after  that,  call  me  a  taxi.  Tell  it  to  wait. 
I'll  be  ready  by  ten  or  know  — " 

Promptly  retiring,  Milly  took  with  her,  in  addition 
to  the  bandbox,  a  confused  impression  of  a  room  whose 
atmosphere  was  thick  with  flying  garments,  in  the 
wild  swirl  of  which  a  lanky  lunatic  danced  weirdly, 
muttering  uncouth  incantations.  .  .  . 

Forty  minutes  later  (on  the  stroke  of  ten)  Mr.  Staff, 
beautifully  groomed  after  his  habit,  his  manner  (su 
perbly  nonchalant)  denying  that  he  had  ever  known 
reason  why  he  should  take  a  single  step  in  haste,  fol 
lowed  his  trunks  down  to  the  sidewalk  and,  graciously 
bidding  his  landlady  adieu,  presented  Milly  with  a 
keepsake  in  the  shape  of  a  golden  coin  of  the  realm. 

A  taxicab,  heavy-laden  with  his  things,  fretted  before 
the  door.  Staff  nodded  to  the  driver. 

"Euston,"  said  he;  "and  a  shilling  extra  if  you  drive 
like  sin." 


24  THE    BANDBOX 

"Right  you  are,  sir." 

In  the  act  of  entering  the  cab,  Staff  started  back 
with  bitter  imprecations. 

Mrs.  Gigg,  who  had  not  quite  closed  the  front  door, 
opened  it  wide  to  his  remonstrant  voice. 

"I  say,  what's  this  bandbox  doing  in  my  cab?  I 
thought  I  told  Milly  —  " 

"Sorry,  sir;  I  forgot,"  Mrs.  Gigg  interposed — "bein* 
that  flustered  —  " 

"Well?" 

"The  woman  what  keeps  the  'at-shop  said  as  'ow 
the  'at  wasn't  to  come  back,  sir.  She  said  a  young 
lidy  bought  it  yestiddy  ahfternoon  and  awsked  to  'ave 
it  sent  you  this  mornin'  before  nine  o'clock." 

"The  deuce  she  did!"  said  Staff  blankly. 

"An'  the  young  lidy  said  as  'ow  she'd  write  you  a 
note  explynin'.  So  I  tells  Milly  not  to  bother  you  no 
more  abaht  it,  but  put  the  'at-box  in  the  keb,  sir  — 
wishin'  not  to  'inder  you." 

"  Thoughtful  of  you,  I  'm  sure.  But  did  n't  the  —  ah 
—  woman  who  keeps  the  hat-shop  mention  the  name  of 
the  —  ah  —  person  who  purchased  the  hat?" 

By  the  deepening  of  its  corrugations,  the  forehead  of 
Mrs.  Gigg  betrayed  the  intensity  of  her  mental  strain. 
Her  eyes  wore  a  far-away  look  and  her  lips  moved,  at 
first  silently.  Then  —  "I  ain't  sure,  sir,  as  she  did 


THE    BANDBOX  25 

mme  the  lidy,  but  if  she  did,  it  was  somethin'  like 
Burnside,  I  fancy  —  or  else  Postlethwayt." 

"Nor  Jones  nor  Brown?  Perhaps  Robinson?  Think, 
Mrs.  Gigg!  Not  Robinson?" 

"  I  'm  sure  it  may  'ave  been  eyether  of  them,  sir,  now 
you  puts  it  to  me  pl'm." 

"That  makes  everything  perfectly  clear.  Thank 
you  so  much." 

With  this,  Staff  turned  hastily  away,  nodded  to  his 
driver  to  cut  along,  and  with  groans  and  lamentations 
squeezed  himself  into  what  space  the  bandbox  did  not 
demand  of  the  interior  of  the  vehicle. 


Ill 

TWINS 

ON  the  boat-train,  en  route  for  Liverpool,  Mr. 
Staff  found  plenty  of  time  to  consider  the  affair 
of  the  foundling  bandbox  in  every  aspect  with  which  a 
lively  imagination  could  invest  it;  but  to  small  profit. 
In  fact,  he  was  able  to  think  of  little  else,  with  the 
damned  thing  smirking  impishly  at  him  from  its  perch 
on  the  opposite  seat.  He  was  vexed  to  exasperation 
by  the  consciousness  that  he  could  n't  guess  why  or  by 
whom  it  had  been  so  cavalierly  thrust  into  his  keeping. 
Consequently  he  cudgelled  his  wits  unmercifully  in 
exhaustive  and  exhausting  attempts  to  clothe  it  with 
a  plausible  raison  d'etre. 

He  believed  firmly  that  the  Maison  Lucille  had 
acted  in  good  faith;  the  name  of  Staff  was  too  distinc 
tive  to  admit  of  much  latitude  for  error.  Nor  was  it 
difficult  to  conceive  that  this  or  that  young  woman  of 
his  acquaintance  might  have  sent  him  the  hat  to  take 
home  for  her  —  thus  ridding  herself  of  a  cumbersome 
package  and  neatly  saddling  him  with  all  the  bother 
of  getting  the  thing  through  the  customs.  But  .  .  .  ! 


TWINS  27 

Who  was  there  in  London  just  then  that  knew  him 
well  enough  so  to  presume  upon  his  good  nature?  None 
that  he  could  call  to  mind.  Besides,  how  in  the  name 
of  all  things  inexplicable  had  anybody  found  out  his 
intention  of  sailing  on  the  Autocratic,  that  particular 
day  ?  —  something  of  which  he  himself  had  yet  to  be 
twenty-four  hours  aware ! 

His  conclusions  may  be  summed  up  under  two  heads: 
(a)  there  was  n't  any  answer;  (b)  it  was  all  an  unmiti 
gated  nuisance.  And  so  thinking,  divided  between 
despair  and  disgust,  Mr.  Staff  gave  the  problem  up 
against  his  arrival  on  board  the  steamship.  There 
remained  to  him  a  single  gleam  of  hope:  a  note  of 
explanation  had  been  promised;  he  thought  it  just 
possible  that  it  might  have  been  sent  to  the  steamship 
rather  than  to  his  lodgings  in  London. 

Therefore,  the  moment  he  set  foot  aboard  the  ship, 
he  consigned  his  hand-luggage  to  a  steward,  instructing 
the  fellow  where  to  take  it,  and  hurried  off  to  the 
dining-saloon  where,  upon  a  table  round  which  passen 
gers  buzzed  like  flies  round  a  sugar-lump,  letters  and 
telegrams  for  the  departing  were  displayed.  But  he 
could  find  nothing  for  Mr.  Benjamin  Staff. 

Disappointed  and  indignant  to  the  point  of  suppressed 
profanity,  he  elbowed  out  of  the  thronged  saloon  just 
in  time  to  espy  a  steward  (quite  another  steward:  not 


28  THE    BANDBOX 

him  with  whom  Staff  had  left  his  things)  struggling  up 
the  main  companionway  under  the  handicap  of  several 
articles  of  luggage  which  Staff  did  n't  recognise,  and 
one  which  he  assured  himself  he  did:  a  bandbox  as 
like  the  cause  of  all  his  perturbation  as  one  piano-case 
resembles  another. 
Now  if  quite  out  of  humour  with  the  bandbox  and 

all  that  appertained  thereunto,  the  temper  of  the  young 

\ 
man  was  such  that  he  was  by  no  means  prepared  to 

see  it  confiscated  without  his  knowledge  of  consent. 
In  two  long  strides  he  overhauled  the  steward,  plucked 
him  back  with  a  peremptory  hand,  and  abashed  him 
with  a  stern  demand: 

"I  say!  where  the  devil  do  you  think  you  're  going, 
my  man?" 

His  man  showed  a  face  of  dashed  amazement. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir !    Do  you  mean  me? " 

"Most  certainly  I  mean  you.  That's  my  bandbox. 
What  are  you  doing  with  it  ?  " 

Looking  guiltily  from  his  face  to  the  article  in  ques 
tion,  the  steward  flushed  and  stammered  —  culpability 
incarnate,  thought  Staff. 

"Your  bandbox,  sir?" 

"  Do  you  think  I  'd  go  charging  all  over  this  ship  for 
a  silly  bandbox  that  was  n't  mine  ?  " 

"But,  sir  —  " 


29 

"I  tell  you,  it's  mine.  It's  tagged  with  my  name. 
Where  's  the  steward  I  left  it  with?" 

"But,  sir,"  pleaded  the  accused,  "this  belongs  to 
this  lidy  'ere.  I  'm  just  tikin'  it  to  'er  stiteroom,  sir." 

Staff's  gaze  followed  the  man's  nod,  and  for  the  first 
time  he  became  aware  that  a  young  woman  stood  a 
step  or  two  above  them,  half  turned  round  to  attend  to 
the  passage,  her  air  and  expression  seeming  to  indicate 
a  combination  of  amusement  and  impatience. 

Precipitately  the  young  man  removed  his  hat. 
Through  the  confusion  clouding  his  thoughts,  he  both 
foreglimpsed  humiliation  and  was  dimly  aware  of  a 
personality  of  force  and  charm:  of  a  well-poised  figure 
cloaked  in  a  light  pongee  travelling-wrap;  of  a  face 
that  seemed  to  consist  chiefly  in  dark  eyes  glowing 
lambent  in  the  shadow  of  a  wide-brimmed,  flopsy  hat. 
He  was  sensitive  to  a  hint  of  breeding  and  reserve  in 
the  woman's  attitude;  as  though  (he  thought)  the  con 
tretemps  diverted  and  engaged  her  more  than  he  did 
who  was  responsible  for  it. 

He  addressed  her  in  a  diffident  and  uncertain  voice: 
"I  beg  pardon.  .  .  ." 

"The  box  is  mine,"  she  affirmed  with  a  cool  and 
even  gravity.  "The  steward  is  right." 

He  choked  back  a  counterclaim,  which  would  have 
been  unmannerly,  and  in  his  embarrassment  did  some- 


30  THE    BANDBOX 

thing  that  he  instantly  realised  was  even  worse,  ap 
proaching  downright  insolence  in  that  it  demanded 
confirmation  of  her  word:  he  bent  forward  and  glanced 
at  the  tag  on  the  bandbox. 

It  was  labelled  quite  legibly  with  the  name  of  Miss 
Eleanor  Searle. 

He  coloured,  painfully  contrite.  "I'm  sorry,"  he 
stammered.  "I  —  ah  —  happen  to  have  with  me  the 
precise  duplicate  of  this  box.  I  didn  't  at  first  realise 
that  it  might  have  a  —  ah  —  twin." 

The  young  woman  inclined  her  head  distantly. 

"I  understand,"  she  said,  turning  away.  "Come, 
steward,  if  you  please." 

"  I  'm  very  sorry  — very,"  Staff  said  hastily  in  intense 
mortification. 

Miss  Searle  did  not  reply;  she  had  already  resumed 
her  upward  progress.  Her  steward  followed,  openly 
grinning. 

Since  it  is  not  considered  good  form  to  kick  a  steward 
for  knowing  an  ass  when  he  meets  one,  Staff  could  no 
more  than  turn  away,  disguise  the  unholy  emotions 
that  fermented  in  his  heart,  and  seek  his  stateroom. 

"  It  had  to  be  me ! "  he  groaned. 

Stateroom  432-433  proved  to  be  very  much  occupied 
when  he  found  it  —  chiefly,  to  be  sure,  by  the  band 
box,  which  took  up  most  of  the  floor  space.  Round  it 


TWINS  31 

were  grouped  in  various  attitudes  of  dejection  sundry 
other  pieces  of  travelling-gear  and  Mr.  Iff.  The  latter 
was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  lower  berth,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  his  brow  puckered  with  perplexity,  his 
gaze  fixed  in  fascination  to  the  bandbox.  On  Staff's 
entrance  he  looked  up. 

"Hello  !"  he  said  crisply. 

"Afternoon,"  returned  Staff  with  all  the  morose 
dignity  appropriate  to  severely  wounded  self-esteem. 

Iff  indicated  the  bandbox  with  a  delicate  gesture, 

"No  wonder,"  he  observed  mildly,  "you  wanted  the 
ship  to  yourself." 

Staff  grunted  irritably  and,  picking  his  way  through 
and  over  the  mound  of  luggage,  deposited  himself  on 
the  transom  opposite  the  berths. 

"A  present  for  the  missis,  I  take  it  ?  "  pursued  Iff. 

"  You  might  take  it,  and  welcome,  for  all  of  me.  .  .  . 
Only  it  is  n't  mine.  And  I  am  not  married." 

"Pardon!"  murmured  Mr.  Iff.  "But  if  it  isn't 
yours,"  he  suggested  logically,  "what  the  deuce-and- 
all  is  it  doing  here  ?  " 

"I'm  supposed  to  be  taking  it  home  for  a  friend." 

"Ah!  I  see.  ...  A  very,  very  dear  friend,  of 
course.  .  .  .  ?" 

"  You  'd  think  so,  would  n't  you  ? "  Staff  regarded 
the  bandbox  with  open  malevolence.  "If  I  had  my 


32  THE    BANDBOX 

way,"  he  said  vindictively,  "I'd  lift  it  a  kick  over  the 
side  and  be  rid  of  it." 

"How  you  do  take  on,  to  be  sure,"  Iff  commented 
placidly.  "If  I  may  be  permitted  to  voice  my  inmost 
thought:  you  seem  uncommon'  peeved." 

"lam." 

"  Could  I  soothe  your  vexed  soul  in  any  way  ?  " 

"You  might  tell  me  how  to  get  quit  of  the  blasted 
thing." 

"I'll  try,  if  you'll  tell  me  how  you  got  hold  of  it." 

"Look  here!"  Staff  suddenly  aroused  to  a  percep 
tion  of  the  fact  that  he  was  by  way  of  being  artfully 
pumped.  "Does  this  matter  interest  you  very  much 
indeed?" 

"No  more,  apparently,  than  it  annoys  you.  .  .  . 
And  it  is  quite  possible  that,  in  the  course  of  time,  we 
might  like  to  shut  the  door.  .  .  .  But,  as  far  as  that 
is,  I  don't  mind  admitting  I  'm  a  nosey  little  beast. 
If  you  feel  it  your  duty  to  snub  me,  my  dear  fellow,  by 
all  means  go  to  it.  I  don't  mind  —  and  I  dessay  I 
deserve  it." 

'This  proved  irresistible;  Staff's  humour  saved  his 
temper.  To  the  twinkle  in  Iff s  faded  blue  eyes  he 
returned  a  reluctant  smile  that  ended  in  open  laughter. 

"It 's  just  this  way,"  he  explained  somewhat  to  his 
own  surprise,  under  the  influence  of  an  unforeseen 


TWINS  33 

gush  of  liking  for  this  good-humoured  wisp  of  a  man  — 
"  I  feel  I  'm  being  shamelessly  imposed  upon.  Just  as 
I  was  leaving  my  rooms  this  morning  this  hat-box  was 
sent  to  me,  anonymously.  I  assume  that  some  cheeky 
girl  I  know  has  sent  it  to  me  to  tote  home  for  her.  It 's 
a  certificated  nuisance  —  but  that  is  n't  all.  There 
happens  to  be  a  young  woman  named  Searle  on  board, 
who  has  an  exact  duplicate  of  this  infernal  contrap 
tion.  A  few  moments  ago  I  saw  it,  assumed  it  must 
be  mine,  quite  naturally  claimed  it,  and  was  properly 
called  down  in  the  politest,  most  crushing  way  imagin 
able.  Hence  this  headache." 

"  So  ! "  said  Mr.  Iff.  "  So  that  is  why  he  does  n't  love 
his  dear  little  bandbox!  ...  A  Miss  Earle,  I  think 
you  said  ?  " 

"No  —  Searle.  At  least,  that  was  the  name  on  her 
luggage." 

"Oh  — Searle,  eh?" 

"You  don't  happen  to  know  her,  by  any  chance?" 
Staff  demanded,  not  without  a  trace  of  animation. 

"Who?  Me?  Nothing  like  that,"  Iff  disclaimed 
hastily. 

"I  just  thought  you  might,"  said  Staff,  disap 
pointed. 

For  some  moments  the  conversation  languished. 
Then  Staff  rose  and  pressed  the  call-button. 


34  THE    BANDBOX 

"What 'sup?  "asked  Iff. 

"  Going  to  get  rid  of  this,"  said  Staff  with  an  air  of 
grim  determination. 

"Just  what  I  was  going  to  suggest.  But  don't  do 
anything  hasty  —  anything  you'll  be  sorry  for." 

"Leave  that  to  me,  please." 

From  his  tone  the  assumption  was  not  unwarrantable 
that  Staff  had  never  yet  done  anything  that  he  had 
subsequently  found  cause  to  regret.  Pensively  pun 
ishing  an  inoffensive  wrist,  Iff  subsided. 

A  steward  showed  himself  in  the  doorway. 

"You  rang,  sir?" 

"Are  you  our  steward?"  asked  Staff. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Your  name?" 

"Orde,  sir." 

"  Well,  Orde,  can  you  stow  this  thing  some  place  out 
of  our  way  ?  " 

Orde  eyed  the  bandbox  doubtfully.  "  I  dessay  I  can 
find  a  plice  for  it,"  he  said  at  length. 

"Do,  please." 

"Very  good,  sir.  Then-Q."  Possessing  himself  of 
the  bandbox,  Orde  retired. 

"And  now,"  suggested  Iff  with  much  vivacity, 
"  s'pose  we  unpack  and  get  settled." 

And    they   proceeded    to    distribute    their    belong- 


TWINS  35 

ings,  sharing  the  meagre  conveniences  of  their  quar 
ters  with  the  impartiality  of  courteous  and  experienced 
travellers.  .  .  . 

It  was  rather  late  in  the  afternoon  before  Staff  found 
an  opportunity  to  get  on  deck  for  the  first  time.  The 
hour  was  golden  with  the  glory  of  a  westering  sun. 
The  air  was  bland,  the  sea  quiet.  The  Autocratic  had 
settled  into  her  stride,  bearing  swiftly  down  St.  George's 
Channel  for  Queenstown,  where  she  was  scheduled  to 
touch  at  midnight.  Her  decks  presented  scenes  of 
animation  familiar  to  the  eyes  of  a  weathered  voyager. 

There  was  the  customary  confusion  of  petticoats  and 
sporadic  displays  of  steamer-rugs  along  the  ranks  of 
deck-chairs.  Deck-stewards  darted  hither  and  yon, 
wearing  the  harassed  expressions  appropriate  to  per 
sons  of  their  calling  —  doubtless  to  a  man  praying  for 
that  bright  day  when  some  public  benefactor  should 
invent  a  steamship  having  at  least  two  leeward  sides. 
A  clatter  of  tongues  assailed  the  ear,  the  high,  sweet 
accents  of  American  women  predominating.  The 
masculine  element  of  the  passenger-list  with  singu 
lar  unanimity  —  like  birds  of  prey  wheeling  in  ever 
diminishing  circles  above  their  quarry  —  drifted  im 
perceptibly  but  steadily  aft,  toward  the  smoking-room. 
The  two  indispensable  adjuncts  to  a  successful  voyage 
had  already  put  in  their  appearance:  item,  the  Pest, 


36  THE    BANDBOX 

an  overdressed,  overgrown,  shrill-voiced  female-child, 
blundering  into  everybody's  way  and  shrieking  im 
pertinences;  item,  a  short,  stout,  sedulously  hilarious 
gentleman  who  oozed  public-spirited  geniality  at  every 
pore  and  insisted  on  buttonholing  inoffensive  strangers 
and  demanding  that  they  enter  an  embryonic  deck- 
quoit  tournament  —  in  short,  discovering  every  known 
symptom  of  being  the  Life  and  Soul  of  the  Ship. 

Staff  dodged  both  by  grace  of  discretion  and  good 
fortune,  and  having  found  his  deck-chair,  dropped  into 
it  with  a  sigh  of  content,  composing  himself  for  rest 
and  thought.  His  world  seemed  very  bright  with 
promise,  just  then;  he  felt  that,  if  he  had  acted  on 
impetuous  impulse,  he  had  not  acted  unwisely:  only  a 
few  more  hours  —  then  the  pause  at  Queenstown* — 
then  the  brief,  seven-day  stretch  across  the  Atlantic 
to  home  and  Alison  Landis ! 

It  seemed  almost  too  good  to  be  true.  He  all  but 
purred  with  his  content  in  the  prospect. 

Of  course,  he  had  a  little  work  to  do,  but  he  did  n't 
mind  that;  it  would  help  immensely  to  beguile  the 
tedium  of  the  voyage;  and  all  he  required  in  order  to 
do  it  well  was  the  moral  courage  to  shut  himself  up  for 
a  few  hours  each  day  and  to  avoid  as  far  as  possible 
social  entanglements.  .  .  . 

At  just  about  this  stage  in  his  meditations  he  was 


TWINS  37 

somewhat  rudely  brought  back  to  earth  —  or,  more 
properly,  to  deck. 

A  voice  shrieked  excitedly:  "Why,  Mr.  Staff!" 

To  be  precise,  it  miscalled  him  "Stahf":  a  shrill, 
penetrating,  overcultivated,  American  voice  making 
an  attempt  only  semi-successful  to  cope  with  the  broad 
vowels  of  modern  English  enunciation. 

Staff  looked  up,  recognised  its  owner,  and  said  be 
neath  his  breath :  "  O  Lord  ! "  —  his  soul  crawling  with 
recognition.  But  nothing  of  this  was  discernible  in  the 
alacrity  with  which  he  jumped  up  and  bent  over  a  bony 
but  bedizened  hand. 

"Mrs.  Ilkington  !"  he  said. 

"R'ally,"  said  the  lady,  "the  world  is  ve-ry  small, 
is  n't  it?" 

She  was  a  lean,  angular,  inordinately  vivacious  body 
whose  years,  which  were  many  more  than  forty,  were 
making  a  brave  struggle  to  masquerade  as  thirty.  She 
was  notorious  for  her  execrable  taste  in  gowns  and 
jewelry,  but  her  social  position  was  impregnable,  and 
her  avowed  mission  in  life  was  to  bring  together  Society 
(meaning  the  caste  of  money)  with  the  Arts  (meaning 
those  humble  souls  content  to  sell  their  dreams  for  the 
wherewithal  to  sustain  life). 

Her  passion  for  bromidioms  always  stupefied  Staff 
—  left  him  dazed  and  witless.  In  the  present  in- 


38  THE    BANDBOX 

stance  he  could  think  of  nothing  by  way  of  response 
happier  than  that  hoary  banality:  "This  is  indeed 
a  surprise.'* 

"Flatterer!"  said  Mrs.  Ilkington  archly.  "I'm  not 
surprised,"  she  pursued.  "  I  might  have  known  you  'd 
be  aboard  this  vessel." 

"You  must  be  a  prophetess  of  sorts,  then,"  he  said, 
smiling.  "  I  did  n't  know  I  was  going  to  sail,  myself, 
till  late  yesterday  afternoon." 

"Deceiver,"  commented  the  lady  calmly.  "Why 
can't  you  men  ever  be  candid?" 

Surprise  merged  into  some  annoyance.  "What  do 
you  mean  ?  "  he  asked  bluntly. 

"Oh,  but  two  can  play  at  that  game,"  she  assured 
him  spiritedly.  "  If  you  won't  be  open  with  me,  why 
should  I  tell  all  I  know?" 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  you  're  driving  at, 
Mrs.  Ilkington." 

"Would  it  improve  your  understanding"  — 
she  threatened  him  gaily  with  a  gem-encrusted 
forefinger  —  "  if  I  were  to  tell  you  I  met  a  certain 
person  in  Paris  last  week,  who  talked  to  me  about 
you?" 

"  It  would  not,"  said  he  stiffly.    "  Who  —  ?  " 

"Oh,  well,  if  you  won't  be  frank!"  Mrs.  Ilkington's 
manner  implied  that  he  was  a  bold,  bad  butterfly, 


TWINS  39 

but  that  she  had  his  entomological  number,  none  the 
less.  "Tell  me,"  she  changed  the  subject  abruptly, 
"how  goes  the  great  play?" 

"Three  acts  are  written,"  he  said  in  weariness  of 
spirit,  "the  fourth — " 

"But  I  thought  you  were  n't  to  return  to  America 
until  it  was  quite  finished  ? " 

"Who  told  you  that,  please?" 

"Never  mind,  sir !    How  about  the  fourth  act  ? " 

"I  mean  to  write  it  en  voyage,"  said  he,  perplexed. 
From  whom  could  this  woman  possibly  have  learned  so 
much  that  was  intimate  to  himself  ? 

"  You  have  it  all  mapped  out,  then  ?  "  she  persisted. 

"Oh,  yes;  it  only  needs  to  be  put  on  paper." 

"R'ally,  then,  it's  true  —  isn't  it  —  that  the  writ 
ing  is  the  least  part  of  play  construction?  " 

"Who  told  you  that?"  he  asked  again,  this  time 
amused. 

"Oh,  a  very  prominent  man,"  she  declared;  and 
named  him. 

Staff  laughed.  "A  too  implicit  belief  in  that  theory, 
Mrs.  Ilkington,"  said  he,  "is  responsible  for  the  large 
number  of  perfectly  good  plays  that  somehow  never  get 
written  —  to  say  nothing  of  the  equally  large  number 
of  perfectly  good  playwrights  who  somehow  never  get 
anywhere." 


40  THE    BANDBOX 

"Clever!"  screamed  the  lady.  "But  aren't  you 
wasteful  of  your  epigrams?" 

He  could  cheerfully  have  slain  her  then  and  there; 
for  which  reason  the  civil  gravity  he  preserved  was  all 
the  more  commendable. 

"And  now,"  he  persisted,  "won't  you  tell  me  with 
whom  you  were  discussing  me  in  Paris?" 

She  shook  her  head  at  him  reprovingly.  "You  don't 
know?" 

"No." 

"You  can't  guess?" 

"Not  to  save  me." 

"R'ally?" 

"Honestly  and  truly,"  he  swore,  puzzled  by  the 
undertone  of  light  malice  he  thought  to  detect  in  her 
manner. 

"Then,"  said  she  with  decision,  "I'm  not  going  to 
get  myself  into  trouble  by  babbling.  But,  if  you 
promise  to  be  nice  to  me  all  the  way  home  —  ?  "  She 
paused. 

"I  promise,"  he  said  gravely. 

"Then  —  if  you  happen  to  be  at  the  head  of  the 
companion-ladder  when  the  tender  comes  off  from 
Queenstown  tonight  —  I  promise  you  a  huge  surprise." 

"You  won't  say  more  than  that?"  he  pleaded. 

She  appeared  to  debate.     "Yes,"  she  announced 


TWINS  41 

mischievously;  "I'll  give  you  a  leading  hint.  The 
person  I  mean  is  the  purchaser  of  the  Cadogan 
collar." 

His  eyes  were  blank.  "And  what,  please,  is  the 
Cadogan  collar?" 

"  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  you  've  never  heard 
of  it?"  She  paused  with  dramatic  effect.  "Incredi 
ble!  Surely,  everybody  knows  about  the  Cadogan 
collar,  the  most  magnificent  necklace  of  pearls  in  the 
world!" 

"Everybody,  it  seems,  but  myself,  Mrs.  Hkington." 

"R'ally!"  she  cried,  and  tapped  his  arm  playfully. 
"You  are  as  stupid  as  most  brilliant  men!" 

A  bugle  sang  through  the  evening  air.  The  lady 
started  consciously. 

"Heavens!"  she  cried.  "Time  to  dress  for  dinner: 
I  must  fly!  .  .  .  Have  you  made  your  table  res 
ervation  yet?  " 

"Yes,"  he  said  hastily. 

"Then  do  see  the  second-steward  at  once  and  get 
transferred  to  our  table;  we  have  just  one  vacant  chair. 
Oh,  but  you  must;  you  Ve  promised  to  be  nice  to  me, 
you  know.  And  I  do  so  want  you  to  meet  one  of  my 
protegees  —  such  a  sweet  girl  —  a  Miss  Searle.  I  'm 
sure  you  '11  be  crazy  about  her  —  at  least,  you  would 
be  if  there  were  no  Alison  Landis  in  your  cosmos.  Now, 


42  THE    BANDBOX 

do  attend  to  that  right  away.  Remember  you  Ve 
promised." 

Staff  bowed  as  she  fluttered  away.  In  his  heart  he 
was  thoroughly  convinced  that  this  were  a  sorry  scheme 
of  things  indeed  did  it  not  include  a  special  hell  for 
Mrs.  Ilkingtons. 

What  had  she  meant  by  her  veiled  references  to  this 
mysterious  person  in  Paris,  who  was  to  board  the 
steamer  at  Queenstown?  How  had  she  come  by  so 
much  personal  knowledge  of  himself  and  his  work?  And 
what  did  she  know  about  his  love  for  Alison  Landis? 

He  swore  thoughtfully,  and  went  below  to  dress, 
stopping  on  the  way  to  make  arrangements  with  the 
second-steward  to  have  his  seat  changed,  in  accordance 
with  his  exacted  promise. 


IV 

QUEENSTOWN 

TMMEDIATELY  he  had  allowed  himself  to  be  per 
suaded,  Staff  felt  sure  he  should  not  have  agreed 
to  change  his  seat  to  the  table  occupied  by  Mrs.  liking- 
ton's  party,  especially  if  he  meant  sincerely  to  try  to 
do  any  real  work  aboard  the  Autocratic;  and  it  was  n't 
long  after  he  had  taken  his  place  for  the  first  dinner 
that  he  was  convinced  that  he  had  blundered  beyond 
remedy  or  excuse. 

The  table  was  round  and  seated  seven,  though  when 
the  party  had  assembled  there  remained  two  vacant 
places.  Staff  was  assigned  the  chair  on  Mrs.  Ilkington's 
right  and  was  sensitive  to  a  not  over  subtle  implication 
that  his  was  the  seat  of  honour.  He  would  cheerfully 
have  exchanged  it  for  a  place  on  the  lady's  left,  which 
would  have  afforded  a  chance  to  talk  to  Miss  Searle, 
to  whom  he  earnestly  desired  to  make  an  explanation 
and  such  amends  as  she  would  permit.  But  a  male 
person  named  Bangs,  endowed  with  impressive  self- 
assurance,  altogether  too  much  good-looks  (measured 

43 


44  THE    BANDBOX 

by  the  standards  of  the  dermatological  institute  adver 
tisements)  and  no  excess  baggage  in  the  way  of  intel 
lect,  sat  on  Mrs.  Ilkington's  left,  with  Miss  Searle 
beyond  him.  The  latter  had  suffered  Staff  to  be  pre 
sented  to  her  with  (he  fancied)  considerable  repressed 
amusement.  Not  that  he  blamed  her,  but  .  .  . 

His  position  was  rendered  unhappy  to  the  verge  of 
being  impossible,  however,  by  the  lady  on  his  own  right, 
a  Mrs.  Thataker:  darkly  temperamental  and  buxom,  a 
divorcee  and  (she  lost  no  time  in  telling  him)  likewise 
a  playwright.  True,  none  of  her  plays  had  ever  been 
produced;  but  that  was  indisputably  due  to  a  mana 
gerial  conspiracy;  what  she  really  needed  was  a  friend 
at  court — some  clever  man  having  "  the  ear  of  the  man 
ager."  (Staff  gathered  that  a  truly  clever  man  could 
warm  up  a  play  and  pour  it  into  the  ear  of  the  managers 
like  laudanum  and  sweet-oil.)  With  such  a  man,  he 
was  given  to  understand,  Mrs.  Thataker  would  n't 
mind  collaborating;  she  had  manuscripts  in  her  steamer- 
trunk  which  were  calculated  to  prove  a  number  of 
things  .  .  . 

And  while  he  was  easing  away  and  preparing  to  run 
before  the  wind  to  escape  any  such  hideous  complica 
tion,  he  was  abruptly  brought  up  all-standing  by  the 
information  that  the  colour  of  the  lady's  soul  was  pink. 
She  knew  this  to  be  a  fact  beyond  dispute,  because  she 


QUEENSTOWN  45 

never  could  do  her  best  work  save  when  garbed  ex 
clusively  in  pink.  She  enumerated  several  articles  of 
wearing  apparel  not  customarily  discussed  between 
comparative  strangers  but  which  —  always  provided 
they  were  pink  —  she  held  indispensable  to  the  task 
of  dramatic  composition. 

In  his  great  agony,  happening  to  glance  in  Miss 
Searle's  direction,  he  saw  her  with  head  bent  and  eye 
lids  lowered,  lips  compressed,  colour  a  trifle  heightened, 
shoulders  suspiciously  a-quiver. 

Incongruously,  the  impression  obtruded  that  they 
were  unusually  handsome  shoulders. 

For  that  matter,  she  was  an  unusually  handsome 
young  woman:  tall,  fair,  with  a  face  featured  with  faint, 
exquisite  irregularity,  brown  eyes  and  brows  in  striking 
contrast  to  the  rich  golden  colour  of  her  hair;  well- 
poised  and  balanced  —  sure  but  not  too  conscious  of 
herself  .  .  . 

Staff  heard  himself  saying  "Beg  pardon?"  to  a 
third  repetition  of  one  of  Mrs.  Thataker's  gratuitous 
revelations. 

At  this  he  took  fright,  drew  back  into  his  reserve  for 
the  remainder  of  the  meal,  and  as  soon  as  he  decently 
could,  made  his  excuses  and  fled  to  join  Iff  in  the 
smoking-room.  .  .  . 

He  found  the  little  man  indulging  his  two  passions; 


46  THE    BANDBOX 

he  was  drinking  whiskey-and-sodas  and  playing  bridge, 
both  in  the  most  masterly  fashion.  Staff  watched  the 
game  a  while  and  then,  the  opportunity  offering,  cut 
in.  He  played  till  ten  o'clock,  at  which  hour,  wearied, 
he  yielded  his  seat  to  another,  leaving  Mr.  Iff  the  victor 
of  six  rubbers  and  twelve  whiskey-and-sodas.  As  Staff 
went  out  on  deck  the  little  man  cut  for  the  seventh  and 
ordered  the  thirteenth.  Neither  indulgence  seemed  to 
have  had  any  perceptible  effect  upon  him. 

Staff  strolled  forward,  drinking  in  air  that  seemed  the 
sweeter  by  contrast  with  the  reeking  room  he  had  just 
quitted.  The  wind  had  freshened  since  nightfall;  it 
blew  strong  and  cool,  but  not  keen.  And  there  was 
more  motion  in  the  seas  that  sang  overside,  wrapped  in 
Cimmerian  blackness.  The  sky  had  become  overcast; 
there  were  no  stars:  only  the  'longshore  lights  of  Ireland 
twinkled,  small,  bright,  incredibly  distant  over  the 
waters.  The  decks  were  softly  aglow  with  electric  lights, 
lending  a  deeper  shade  of  velvety  denseness  to  the  night 
beyond  the  rails. 

He  had  n't  moved  far  forward  when  his  quick  sight 
picked  out  the  shimmer  of  a  woman's  hair,  like  spun 
gold,  about  amidships  in  the  rank  of  deck-Chan's.  He 
made  sure  it  was  Miss  Searle ;  and  it  was.  She  sat  alone, 
with  none  near  her,  her  head  resting  against  the  back 
of  the  chair,  her  face  turned  a  trifle  forward;  so  that 


QUEENSTOWN  47 

she  was  unaware  of  his  approach  until  he  stopped 
before  her. 

"Miss  Searle  — "  he  began  diffidently. 

She  looked  up  quickly  and  smiled  in  what  he  thought 
a  friendly  way. 

"Good  evening,"  said  she;  and  moved  her  body 
slightly  in  the  deck-chair,  turning  a  little  to  the  left  as 
if  expecting  him  to  take  the  vacant  chair  on  that  hand. 

He  did  so  without  further  encouragement,  and 
abruptly  found  himself  wholly  lacking  words  where 
with  to  phrase  what  he  had  in  mind  to  say.  In  such 
emergency  he  resorted  to  an  old,  tried  and  true  trick 
of  his  and  began  to  talk  on  the  first  subject,  unrelated 
to  his  dilemma,  that  popped  into  his  head. 

"Are  you  a  good  sailor?  "  he  enquired  gravely. 

The  girl  nodded.    "Very." 

"Not  afraid  of  seasickness?" 

"No.    Why?" 

"Because,"  said  Staff  soberly,  "I  Ve  been  praying  for 
*  hurricane." 

She  nodded  again  without  speaking,  her  eyes  alone 
questioning. 

"Mrs.  Thataker,"  he  pursued  evenly,  "confided  to 
me  at  dinner  that  she  is  a  very  poor  sailor  indeed." 

Miss  Searle  laughed  quietly.  "You  desire  a  punish 
ment  to  fit  the  crime." 


48  THE    BANDBOX 

"There  are  some  crimes  for  which  no  adequate 
punishment  has  ever  been  contrived,"  he  returned, 
beginning  to  see  his  way,  and  at  the  same  time  beginning 
to  think  himself  uncommonly  clever. 

"  Oh ! "  said  Miss  Searle  with  a  little  laugh.  "  Now  if 
you  're  leading  up  to  a  second  apology  about  that  ques 
tion  of  the  bandbox,  you  need  n't,  because  I  've  forgiven 
you  already." 

He  glanced  at  her  reproachfully.  "  You  just  naturally 
had  to  beat  me  to  that,  did  n't  you?"  he  complained. 
"Ah1  the  same,  it  was  inexcusable  of  me." 

"Oh,  no;  I  quite  understood." 

"You  see,"  he  persisted  obstinately,  "I  really  did 
think  it  was  my  bandbox.  I  actually  have  got  one 
with  me,  precisely  like  yours." 

"I  quite  believed  you  the  first  time." 

Something  in  her  tone  moved  him  to  question  her  face 
sharply;  but  he  found  her  shadowed  eyes  inscrutable. 

"I  half  believe  you  know  something,"  he  ventured, 
perplexed. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  nodded,  with  an  enigmatic  smile. 

"What  do  you  know?" 

"  Why,"  she  said,  "  it  was  simple  enough.  I  happened 
to  be  in  Lucille's  yesterday  afternoon  when  a  hat  was 
ordered  delivered  to  you." 

"You  were!    Then  you  know  who  sent  it  to  me?" 


QUEENSTOWN  49 

"Of  course."  Her  expression  grew  curious.  "Don't 
you?" 

"  No,"  he  said  excitedly.    "  Tell  me." 

But  she  hesitated.    "  I  'm  not  sure  I  ought  ..." 

"Why  not?" 

"  It 's  none  of  my  affair  —  " 

"But  surely  you  must  see  ...  Listen:  I  '11  tell  you 
about  it."  He  narrated  succinctly  the  intrusion  of  the 
mysterious  bandbox  into  his  ken,  that  morning.  "  Now, 
a  note  was  promised;  it  must  have  miscarried.  Surely, 
there  can  be  no  harm  in  your  telling  me.  Besides,  I  Ve 
a  right  to  know." 

"  Possibly  .  .  .  but  I  'm  not  sure  I  Ve  a  right  to  tell. 
Why  should  I  be  a  spoil-sport?" 

"  You  mean,"  he  said  thoughtfully  —  "you  think  it 's 
some  sort  of  a  practical  joke?" 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"Hmm-mm,"  said  Staff.  And  then,  "I  don't  like  to 
be  made  fun  of,"  he  asserted,  a  trace  sulkily. 

"You  are  certainly  a  dangerously  original  man,"  said 
Miss  Searle  —  "almost  abnormal." 

"The  most  unkindest  slam  of  all,"  he  murmured. 

He  made  himself  look  deeply  hurt.  The  girl  laughed 
softly.  He  thought  it  rather  remarkable  that  they 
should  enjoy  so  sympathetic  a  sense  of  humour  on 
such  short  acquaintance.  .  .  . 


50  THE    BANDBOX 

"But  you  forgive  me?'1 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said  generously;  "only,  of  course,  I 
could  n't  help  feeling  it  a  bit  —  coming  from  you." 

"From  me?"  Miss  Searle  sat  up  in  her  deck-chair 
and  turned  to  him.  "Mr.  Staff!  you  're  not  flirting 
with  me?  " 

"Heaven  forfend!"  he  cried,  so  sincerely  that  both 
laughed. 

"Because,"  said  she,  sinking  back,  "I  must  warn  you 
that  Mrs.  Ilkington  has  been  talking  ..." 

"Oh,"  he  groaned  from  his  heart  —  "damn  that 
woman!" 

There  was  an  instant  of  silence;  then  he  stole  a  con 
trite  look  at  her  immobile  profile  and  started  to  get  up. 

"I  —  Miss  Searle,"  he  stammered  —  "I  beg  your 
pardon  ..." 

"Don't  go,"  she  said  quietly;  "that  is,  unless  you 
want  to.  My  silence  was  simply  sympathetic." 

He  sat  back.  "Thank  you,"  he  said  with  gratitude; 
and  for  some  seconds  considered  the  case  of  Mrs. 
Ilkington,  not  charitably  but  with  murder  in  his  bosom. 
"Do  you  mean,"  he  resumed  presently,  "she  has  —  ah 
—  connected  my  name  with  — " 

"Yes,"  nodded  the  girl. 

"'Something  lingering  in  boiling  oil,'"  he  mused 
aloud,  presently.  .  .  .  "What  staggers  me  is  how  she 


QUEENSTOWN  51 

found  out;  I  was  under  the  impression  that  only  the 
persons  most  concerned  knew  about  it." 

"Then  it 's  true?  You  are  engaged  to  many  Miss 
Landis?  Or  is  that  an  impertinent  question?"  With 
out  pause  the  girl  answered  herself:  "Of  course  it 
is;  only  I  could  n't  help  asking.  Please  forget  I 
spoke — " 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  he  said  wearily;  "now  that  Mrs. 
Ilkington  has  begun  to  distribute  handbills.  Only  .  .  . 
I  don't  know  that  there  's  a  regular,  hard-and-fast  en 
gagement:  just  an  understanding." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Searle.  "I  promise  not  to 
speak  of  it  again."  She  hesitated  an  instant,  then  added: 
"To  you  or  anybody  else." 

"You  see,"  he  went  on  after  a  little,  "I've  been 
working  on  a  play  for  Miss  Landis,  under  agreement 
with  Jules  Max,  her  manager.  They  want  to  use  it  to 
open  Max's  newest  Broadway  theatre  late  this  autumn. 
That 's  why  I  came  across  —  to  find  a  place  in  London 
to  bury  myself  in  and  work  undisturbed.  It  means  a 
good  deal  to  me  —  to  all  of  us  —  this  play.  .  .  .  But 
what  I  'm  getting  at  is  this:  Alison  —  Miss  Landis  — 
did  n't  leave  the  States  this  summer;  Mrs.  Ilkington 
(she  told  me  at  dinner)  left  New  York  before  I  did. 
So  how  in  Heaven's  name  —  ?  " 

"I  had  known  nothing  of  Mrs.  Ilkington  at  all/* 


52  THE    BANDBOX 

said  Miss  Searle  cautiously,  "until  we  met  in  Paris 
last  month." 

He  was  conscious  of  the  hint  of  uneasiness  in  her 
manner,  but  inclined  to  assign  it  to  the  wrong  cause. 

"  I  trust  I  have  n't  bored  you,  Miss  Searle  —  talking 
about  myself. " 

"Oh,  no;  indeed  no.  You  see — "  she  laughed  — 
"I  quite  understand;  I  keep  a  temperament  of  my 
own  —  if  you  should  happen  to  wonder  why  Mrs. 
Ilkington  interests  herself  in  me.  I  'm  supposed 
to  have  a  voice  and  to  be  in  training  for  grand 
opera." 

"Not  really?" 

And  again  she  laughed.  "  I  'm  afraid  there  is  n't  any 
cure  for  me  at  this  late  date,"  she  protested;  "I  've 
gone  so  far  I  must  go  farther.  But  I  know  what  you 
mean.  People  who  sing  are  difficult.  However  ..." 
She  stirred  restlessly  in  her  chair,  then  sat  up. 

"What  is  that  light  over  there?"  she  asked.  "Do 
you  know?" 

Staff's  gaze  sought  the  indicated  direction.  "Roches 
Point,  I  imagine;  we  're  about  due  at  Queenstown  ..." 

"As  late  as  that?"  The  girl  moved  as  if  to  rise. 
Staff  jumped  up  and  offered  her  a  hand.  In  a  moment 
she  was  standing  beside  him.  "  I  must  go  below,"  said 
she.  "Good  night." 


QUEENSTOWN  53 

"You  won't  tell  me  who  it  was  in  Lucille's,  yester 
day?"  he  harked  back  pleadingly. 

She  shook  her  head  gaily  as  she  turned  forward  to 
the  main  companionway  entrance:  "No;  you  must  find 
out  for  yourself." 

"But  perhaps  it  is  n't  a  practical  joke?" 

"  Then  —  perhaps  —  I  shall  tell  you  all  —  some 
time." 

He  paused  by  the  raised  door-sill  as  she  stepped 
within  the  superstructure.  "Why  not  stop  up  and  see 
the  tender  come  off?"  he  suggested.  "It  might  be 
interesting." 

She  flashed  him  a  look  of  gay  malice.  "  If  we  're  to 
believe  Mrs.  Ilkington,  you  're  apt  to  find  it  more  inter 
esting  than  I.  Good  night." 

"Oh  —  good  night!"  he  muttered,  disturbed;  and 
turned  away  to  the  rail. 

His  troubled  vision  ranged  far  to  the  slowly  shifting 
shore  lights.  The  big  steamship  had  come  very  close 
inshore  —  as  witness  the  retarded  speed  with  which  she 
crept  toward  her  anchorage  —  but  still  the  lights,  for 
all  their  singular  brightness,  seemed  distant,  incalcula 
bly  far  away;  the  gulf  of  blackness  that  set  them  apart 
exaggerated  all  distances  tenfold.  The  cluster  of  sparks 
flanked  by  #reen  and  red  that  marked  the  hover 
ing  tender  appeared  to  float  at  an  infinite  remove, 


54  THE    BANDBOX 

invisibly  buoyed  upon  the  bosom  of  a  fathomless 
void  of  night. 

Out  of  this  wind-swept  waste  of  impenetrable  dark 
ness  was  to  come  the  answer  to  these  many  questions 
that  perplexed  him  —  perhaps.  Something  at  least 
would  come  to  influence  him;  or  else  Mrs.  Ilkington's 
promise  had  been  mere  blague.  .  .  .  Then  what? 

Afterwards  he  assured  himself  that  his  stupidity  had 
been  unparalleled  inconceivable.  And  indeed  there 
seems  to  be  some  colour  of  excuse  for  this  drastic 
stricture,  self-inflicted  though  it  were. 

Below  him,  on  the  main  deck,  a  squad  of  deckhands 
superintended  by  a  petty  officer  was  rigging  out  the 
companion-ladder. 

Very  suddenly  —  it  seemed,  because  of  the  immense 
quiet  that  for  all  its  teeming  life  enveloped  the  ship 
upon  the  cessation  of  the  engine's  song  —  the  vessel 
hesitated  and  then  no  longer  moved.  From  forward 
came  the  clank  of  chains  as  the  anchor  cables  were 
paid  out.  Supple  to  wind  and  tide,  the  Autocratic  swung 
in  a  wide  arc,  until  the  lights  of  the  tender  disappeared 
from  Staff's  field  of  vision. 

Before  long,  however,  they  swam  silently  again  into 
sight;  then  slowly,  cautiously,  by  almost  imperceptible 
stages  the  gap  closed  up  until  the  tender  ranged  along 
side  and  made  fast  to  her  gigantic  sister. 


QUEENSTOWN  55 

Almost  at  once  the  incoming  passengers  began  to 
mount  the  companion-ladder. 

Staff  promptly  abandoned  his  place  at  the  rail 
and  ran  down  to  the  main-deck.  As  he  approached 
the  doorway  opening  adjacent  to  the  companion- 
ladder  he  heard  a  woman's  laugh  out  on  the  deck:  a 
laugh  which,  once  heard,  was  never  to  be  forgot 
ten:  clear,  sweet,  strong,  musical  as  a  peal  of  fairy 
bells. 

He  stopped  short;  and  so  did  his  breath  for  an  in 
stant;  and  so,  he  fancied,  did  his  heart.  This,  then, 
was  what  Mrs.  Ilkington  had  hinted  at !  But  one  woman 
in  all  the  world  could  laugh  like  that  .  .  . 

Almost  at  once  she  appeared,  breaking  through  the 
cluster  of  passengers  on  the  deck  and  into  the  lighted 
interior  with  a  swinging,  vigorous  manner  suggestive  of 
intense  vitality  and  strength.  She  paused,  glancing 
back  over  her  shoulder,  waiting  for  somebody:  a  mag 
nificent  creature,  splendidly  handsome,  wonderfully 
graceful,  beautiful  beyond  compare. 

"Alison!"  Staff  breathed  hoarsely,  dumfounded. 

Though  his  exclamation  could  by  no  means  have 
carried  to  her  ears,  she  seemed  to  be  instantly  sensitive 
to  the  vibrations  of  his  emotion.  She  swung  round, 
raking  her  surroundings  with  a  bright,  curious  glance, 
and  saw  him.  Her  smile  deepened  adorably,  her  eyes 


56  THE    BANDBOX 

brightened,  she  moved  impulsively  toward  him  with 
outflung  hands. 

"Why,"  she  cried  —  "Why,  Staff!   Such  a  surprise!" 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  natural,  spontaneous 
and  unaffected.  In  an  instant  his  every  doubt  and 
misgiving  was  erased  —  blotted  out  and  as  if  it 
had  never  been.  He  caught  and  held  her  hands,  for 
the  moment  speechless.  But  his  eyes  were  all  too 
eloquent:  under  their  steadfast  sincerity  her  own  gaze 
wavered,  shifted  and  fell.  She  coloured  consum 
mately,  then  with  a  gentle  but  determined  manner 
disengaged  her  hands. 

"  Don't,"  she  said  in  the  low,  intimate  voice  she  knew 
so  well  how  and  when  to  employ  —  "don't!  People 
are  looking  ..."  And  then  with  a  bewildering  shift, 
resuming  her  former  spirit:  "Of  all  things  wonderful, 
Staff  —  to  meet  you  here!" 

She  was  acting  —  masking  with  her  admirable  art 
some  emotion  secret  from  him.  He  knew  this  —  felt  it 
intuitively,  though  he  did  not  understand;  and  the 
knowledge  affected  him  poignantly.  What  place  had 
dissimulation  in  their  understanding?  Why  need  she 
affect  what  she  did  not  feel  —  with  him? 

Distressed,  bewildered,  he  met  evasion  with  native 
straightforwardness. 

"  I  'm   stunned,"    he   told   her,    holding   her   eyes 


QUEENSTOWN  57 

with  a  grave,  direct  gaze;  "I  'm  afraid  I  don't  under 
stand.  .  .  .  How  does  this  happen? " 

"Why,  of  course,"  she  said,  maintaining  her  arti 
ficial  elation  —  "I  infer  —  you  Ve  finished  the  play  and 
are  hurrying  home.  So  —  we  meet,  dear  boy.  Is  n't 
it  delightful?" 

"But  you  're  here,  on  this  side  — ?" 

"  Oh,  just  a  flying  trip.  Max  wanted  me  to  see  Bis- 
son's  new  piece  at  the  Porte  St.  Martin.  I  decided  to 
go  at  the  last  moment  —  caught  the  Mauretania  on 
eight  hours'  notice  —  stayed  only  three  days  in  Paris 
—  booked  back  on  this  tub  by  telegraph  —  travelled 
all  day  to  catch  it  by  this  wretched,  roundabout  route. 
And  —  and  there  you  are,  my  dear." 

She  concluded  with  a  gesture  charmingly  ingenuous 
and  disarming;  but  Staff  shook  his  head  impatiently. 

"You  came  over  —  you  passed  through  London 
twice  —  you  stayed  three  days  in  Paris,  Alison  —  and 
never  let  me  know?  " 

"Obviously."  She  lifted  her  shoulders  an  inch,  with 
a  light  laugh.  "Haven't  I  just  said  as  much?  .  .  . 
You  see,  I  didn't  want  to  disturb  you:  it  means  so, 
much  to  —  you  and  me,  Staff  —  the  play." 

Dissatisfied,  knitting  his  brows  faintly,  he  saidr  "'I 
wonder  .  .  .!" 

"My  dear!"  she  protested  gaily,  "you  positively 


58  THE    BANDBOX 

must  not  scowl  at  me  like  that!  You  frighten  me;  and 
besides  I  'm  tired  to  death  —  this  wretched  rush  of 
travelling!  Tomorrow  we  '11  have  a  famous  young 
pow-wow,  but  tonight  — !  Do  say  good  night  to  me, 
prettily,  like  a  dear  good  boy,  and  let  me  go.  ...  It 's 
sweet  to  see  you  again;  I  'm  wild  to  hear  about  the  play. 
.  .  .  Jane!"  she  called,  looking  round. 

Her  maid,  a  tight-mouthed,  unlovely  creature, 
moved  sedately  to  her  side.  "Yes,  Miss  Landis." 

"Have  my  things  come  up  yet?"  The  maid 
responded  affirmatively.  "  Good !  I  'm  dead, 
almost.  ..." 

She  turned  back  to  Staff,  offering  him  her  hand 
and  with  it,  bewitchingly,  her  eyes:  "Dear  boy! 
Good  night." 

He  bent  low  over  the  hand  to  hide  his  dissatis 
faction:  he  felt  a  bit  old  to  be  treated  like  a  petulant, 
teasing  child.  .  .  . 

"Good  night,"  he  said  stiffly. 

"What  a  bear  you  are,  Staff!  Can't  you  wait 
till  tomorrow?  At  all  events,  you  must.  ..." 

Laughing,  she  swept  away,  following  her  maid 
up  the  companion  stairs.  Staff  pursued  her  with 
eyes  frowning  and  perplexed,  and  more  leisurely  with 
his  person. 

As  he  turned  aft  on  the  upper  deck,  meaning  to  go 


QUEENSTOWN  59 

to  the  smoking-room  for  a  good-night  cigarette  — 
absorbed  in  thought  and  paying  no  attention  to  his 
surroundings  —  a  voice  saluted  him  with  a  languid, 
exasperating  drawl:  "Ah,  Staff!  How-d'-ye-do?" 

He  looked  up,  recognising  a  distant  acquaintance: 
a  man  of  medium  height  with  a  tendency  toward 
stoutness  and  a  taste  for  extremes  in  the  matter 
of  clothes;  with  dark,  keen  eyes  deep-set  in  a  face 
somewhat  too  pale,  a  close-clipped  grey  moustache 
and  a  high  and  narrow  forehead  too  frankly  be 
trayed  by  the  derby  he  wore  well  back  on  his  head. 

Staff  nodded  none  too  cordially.  "Oh,  good 
evening,  Arkroyd.  Just  come  aboard?" 

Arkroyd,  on  the  point  of  entering  his  stateroom, 
paused  long  enough  to  confirm  this  surmise.  "  Beastly 
trip  —  most  tiresome,"  he  added,  frankly  yawning. 
"  Don't  know  how  I  should  have  stood  it  if  it  had  n't 
been  for  Miss  Landis.  You  know  her,  I  believe? 
Charming  girl  —  charming." 

"Oh,  quite,"  agreed  Staff.     "Good  night." 

His  tone  arrested  Arkroyd's  attention;  the  man 
turned  to  watch  his  back  as  Staff  shouldered 
down  the  alleyway  toward  the  smoking-room.  "I 
say!"  commented  Mr.  Arkroyd,  privately.  "A 
bit  hipped  —  what?  No  necessity  for  being  so 
bally  short  with  a  chap.  ..." 


60  THE    BANDBOX 

The  guess  was  only  too  well  founded:  Staff  was 
distinctly  disgruntled.  Within  the  past  ten  minutes 
his  susceptibilities  had  been  deeply  wounded.  Why 
Alison  should  have  chosen  to  slight  him  so  cavalierly 
when  in  transit  through  London  passed  his  compre 
hension.  .  .  .  And  the  encounter  with  Arkroyd 
comforted  him  to  no  degree  whatever.  He  had 
never  liked  Arkroyd,  holding  him,  for  all  his  wealth, 
little  better  than  a  theatre-loafer  of  the  Broadway 
type;  and  now  he  remembered  hearing,  once  or 
twice,  that  the  man's  attentions  to  Alison  Landis 
had  been  rather  emphatic. 

Swayed  by  whim,  he  chose  to  avoid  the  smoking- 
room,  after  all  —  having  little  wish  to  be  annoyed 
by  the  chatter  of  Mr.  Iff  —  and  swung  out  on 
deck  again  for  a  half-hour  of  cigarettes  and  lonely 
brooding.  .  .  . 

But  his  half-hour  lengthened  indefinitely  while 
he  sat,  preoccupied,  in  the  deck-chair  of  some  total 
stranger.  By  definite  stages,  to  which  he  was  almost 
altogether  oblivious,  the  Autocratic  weighed  anchor, 
shook  off  her  tender  and  swung  away  on  the  seven- 
day  stretch.  As  definitely  her  decks  became  bare 
of  passengers.  Presently  Staff  was  quite  a  solitary 
figure  in  the  long  array  of  chairs. 

Two  bells  rang  mellowly  through  the  ship  before 


QUEENSTOWN  61 

he  roused,  lifted  himself  to  his  feet  and  prepared 
to  turn  in,  still  distressed  and  wondering  —  so 
much  so  that  he  was  barely  conscious  of  the  fact 
that  one  of  the  officers  of  the  vessel  was  coming  aft, 
and  only  noticed  the  man  when  he  paused  and  spoke. 

"I  say  —  this  is  Mr.  Staff,  is  n't  it?" 

Staff  turned  quickly,  searching  his  memory  for 
the  name  and  status  of  the  sturdy  and  good-looking 
young  Englishman. 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "but—" 

"  I  'm  Mr.  Manvers,  the  purser.  If  I  'm  not 
mistaken,  you  crossed  with  us  this  spring?" 

"Oh,  yes;  I  did.  How-d'-you-do?"  Staff  offered 
his  hand. 

"Sure  I  recognised  you  just  now  —  saw  you  on 
the  main-deck  —  talking  to  Miss  Landis,  I  believe." 

"Yes  .  .  .  ?" 

"Beg  pardon;  I  don't  wish  to  seem  impertinent; 
but  may  I  ask,  do  you  know  the  lady  very  well?" 

Staff's  eyes  clouded.     "Why  ..." 

"Knew  you'd  think  me  impertinent;  but  it  is 
some  of  my  business,  really.  I  can  explain  to  your 
satisfaction.  You  see"  —  the  purser  stepped  nearer 
and  lowered  his  voice  guardedly  —  "I  was  won 
dering  if  you  had  much  personal  influence  with 
Miss  Landis.  I  Ve  just  had  a  bit  of  a  chat  with  her, 


62  THE    BANDBOX 

and  she  won't  listen  to  reason,  you  know,  about 
that  collar." 

"Collar?"  Staff  repeated  stupidly. 

"  The  Cadogan  collar,  you  know  —  some  silly 
pearl  necklace  worth  a  king's  ransom.  She  bought 
it  in  Paris  —  Miss  Landis  did;  at  least,  so  the  report 
runs;  and  she  does  n't  deny  it,  as  a  matter  of  fact. 
Naturally  that  worries  me;  it 's  a  rather  tempting 
proposition  to  leave  lying  round  a  stateroom;  and 
I  asked  her  just  now  to  let  me  take  care  of  it  for  her 
—  put  it  in  my  safe,  you  know.  It  'd  be  a  devilish 
nasty  thing  for  the  ship,  to  have  it  stolen."  The 
purser  paused  for  effect.  "Would  you  believe  it? 
She  would  n't  listen  to  me!  Told  me  she  was  quite 
capable  of  taking  care  of  her  own  property!  Now 
if  you  know  her  well  enough  to  say  the  right  word 
...  it  'd  be  a  weight  off  my  mind,  I  can  tell  you!" 

"Yes,  I  can  imagine  so,"  said  Staff  thoughtfully. 
"But  —  what  makes  you  think  there's  any  pos 
sibility—" 

"Well,  one  never  knows  what  sort  of  people  the 
ship  carries  —  as  a  rule,  that  is.  But  in  this  instance 
I  Ve  got  good  reason  to  believe  there  's  at  least  one 
man  aboard  who  would  n't  mind  lifting  that  collar; 
and  he  's  keen  enough  to  do  it  prettily,  too,  if  what 
they  tell  of  him  is  true." 


QUEENSTOWN  63 

"Now  you're  getting  interesting.  Who  is  this 
man?" 

"  Oh,  quite  the  swell  mobsman  —  Raffles  and 
Arsene  Lupin  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  rolled 
into  one.  His  name  's  Ismay  —  Arbuthnot  Ismay. 
Clever  —  wonderful,  they  say;  the  police  have 
never  been  able  to  fasten  anything  on  him, 
though  he  's  been  known  to  boast  of  his  jobs  in 
advance." 

"You  told  Miss  Landis  this?" 

"  Certainly  —  and  she  laughed." 

This  seemed  quite  credible  of  the  lady.  Staff 
considered  the  situation  seriously  for  a  moment 
or  two. 

"I  '11  do  what  I  can,"  he  said  at  length;  "though 
I  'm  not  hopeful  of  making  her  see  it  from  your 
point  of  view.  Still,  I  will  speak  to  her." 

"  That 's  good  of  you,  I  'm  sure.  You  could  n't 
do  more." 

"You're  positive  about  this  Ismay?"  Staff  pur 
sued.  "You  could  n't  be  mistaken?" 

"Not  I,"  asserted  the  purser  confidently.  "He 
crossed  with  us  last  year  —  the  time  Mrs.  Burden 
Hamman's  jewels  disappeared.  Ismay,  of  course, 
was  suspected,  but  managed  to  prove  every  kind 
of  an  alibi." 


64  THE    BANDBOX 

"Queer  you  should  let  him  book  a  second  time/' 
commented  Staff. 

"Rather;  but  he  's  changed  his  name,  and  I  don't 
imagine  the  chaps  in  Cockspur  Street  know  him  by 
sight." 

"What  name  does  he  travel  under  now?" 

The  purser  smiled  softly  to  himself.  "I  fancy 
you  won't  be  pleased  to  learn  it,"  said  he.  "He  's 
down  on  the  passenger-list  as  Iff  —  W.  H.  Iff." 


V 

ISMAY  ? 

WHEN  Staff  went  below  a  little  later,  he  was 
somewhat  surprised  to  find  his  stateroom 
alight,  —  surprised,  because  he  had  rather  expected 
that  Mr.  Iff  would  elect  to  sleep  off  his  potations 
in  darkness. 

To  the  contrary,  the  little  man  was  very  much 
awake,  propped  up  in  his  berth  with  a  book  for 
company,  and  showed  no  effects  whatever  of  over 
indulgence,  unless  that  were  betrayed  by  a  slightly 
enhanced  brightness  of  the  cool  blue  eyes  which  he 
brought  to  bear  upon  his  roommate. 

"Good  morning!"  he  piped  cheerfully.  "What 
on  earth  got  you  up  so  early?  The  bar 's  been 
closed  an  hour  and  more." 

"Is  that  why  you  came  to  bed?"  enquired  Staff. 

"Sure,"  agreed  Mr.  Iff  complacently. 

Staff  quietly  began  to  shed  his  clothing  and  to 
insert  his  spare  frame  into  pajamas.  Iff  lay  back 
and  stared  reflectively  at  the  white-painted  over 
head  girders. 

65 


66  THE    BANDBOX 

"Got  to  slip  it  to  you,"  he  observed  presently, 
"for  perfect  mastery  of  the  dignified  reserve  thing. 
I  never  knew  anybody  who  could  better  control  his 
tumultuous  emotions." 

"Thanks,"  said  Staff  drily  as  he  wound  up  his 
watch. 

"Anything  'special  troubling  you?" 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"  You  talk  so  darn  much." 

"Sorry  if  I'm  keeping  you  awake,"  said  Staff 
politely. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  to  seem  to  beef  about  it,  only 
...  I  was  wondering  if  by  any  chance  you  'd  heard 
the  news?" 

"What  news?" 

"About  me." 

"About  you!"  Staff  paused  with  his  fingers  on 
the  light-switch. 

"  About  my  cute  little  self.  May  I  look  now? " 
Iff  poked  his  head  over  the  edge  of  the  upper  berth 
and  beamed  down  upon  Staff  like  a  benevolent, 
blond  magpie.  "  Have  n't  you  heard  the  rumour 
that  I  'm  a  desperate  character?" 

"Just  what  do  you  mean?"  demanded  Staff, 
eyeing  the  other  intently. 

"Oh,  simply  that  I  overheard  the  purser  discuss- 


I  S  M  A  Y  ?  67 

ing  me  with  his  assistant.  He  claims  to  recognise 
in  me  a  bold  bad  man  named  Ismay,  whose  specialty 
is  pulling  off  jobs  that  would  make  Sherlock  Holmes 
ask  to  be  retired  on  a  pension." 

"Well?" 

"Well  what?" 

"Are  you  Ismay?" 

A  broad,  mocking  grin  irradiated  the  little  man's 
pinched  features.  "Don't  ask  me,"  he  begged:  "I 
might  tell  you." 

Staff  frowned  and  waited  a  minute,  then,  receiv 
ing  no  further  response  to  his  enquiry,  grunted 
"Good  night,"  turned  off  the  light  and  got  into  his 
berth. 

A  moment  later  the  question  came  out  of  the  dark 
ness  overhead:  "I  say  —  what  do  you  think?" 

"Are  you  Iff  or  Ismay  —  you  mean?" 

"Aye,  lad,  aye!" 

"I  don't  know.    It 's  for  you  to  say." 

"  But  if  you  thought  I  was  Ismay  you  'd  shift 
quarters,  would  n't  you?" 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  might  pinch  something  of  yours." 

"In  the  first  place,"  said  Staff,  yawning,  "I  can't 
shift  without  going  into  the  second  cabin  —  and 
you  know  it:  the  boat's  full  up.  Secondly,  I've 


68  THE    BANDBOX 

nothing  you  could  steal  save  ideas,  and  you  have  n't 
got  the  right  sort  of  brains  to  turn  them  to  any 
account." 

"That  ought  to  hold  me  for  some  time,"  Iff  ad 
mitted  fairly.  "  But  I  'm  concerned  about  your 
sensitive  young  reputation.  Suppose  I  were  to  turn 
a  big  trick  this  trip?" 

"  As  for  instance  —  ?  " 

"Well,  say  I  swipe  the  Cadogan  collar." 

"  Then  I  'd  stand  just  so  much  the  better  chance 
of  catching  you  red-handed." 

"  Swell  notion  you  've  got  of  the  cunning  of  the 
Twentieth  Century  criminal,  I  must  say.  D'  you 
for  an  instant  suppose  my  work  's  so  coarse  that  you 
could  detect  grits  in  it?" 

"Then  you  are  Ismay?" 

"My  son,"  said  the  other  solemnly,  "your  per 
tinacity  shan't  go  unrewarded :  I  will  be  frank  with 
you.  You  shall  know  all.  I  am  Iff  —  the  eternal 
question." 

"Oh,  go  to  thunder!"  said  Staff  indignantly. 

But  as  he  slipped  off  to  sleep  he  could  hear 
the  man  overhead  chuckling  quietly,  beneath  his 
breath.  .  .  . 

The  next  few  days  would  have  provided  him  with 
ample  opportunity  in  which  to  ponder  the  question 


I  S  M  A  Y  ?  69 

of  his  roommate's  identity,  had  Staff  chosen  so  to 
occupy  his  time.  As  it  happened,  Heaven  was  kind 
to  the  young  man,  and  sent  a  gale  of  sorts,  which, 
breaking  upon  the  Autocratic  the  following  morn 
ing,  buffeted  her  for  three  days  and  relegated  to 
their  berths  all  the  poor  sailors  aboard,  including 
the  lady  with  the  pink  soul  and  underthings.  Of 
Mrs.  Thataker,  indeed,  Staff  saw  nothing  more  until 
just  before  the  vessel  docked  in  New  York.  He 
was  n't  heartless  by  any  manner  of  means;  he  was, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  frankly  sorry  for  the  other  poor 
passengers;  but  he  could  n't  help  feeling  there  was 
a  lot  of  truth  in  the  old  saw  about  an  ill  wind.  .  .  . 

Otherwise  the  bad  weather  proved  annoying 
enough  in  several  ways.  To  begin  with,  Alison 
Landis  herself  was  anything  but  a  good  sailor,  and 
even  Miss  Searle,  though  she  missed  no  meals, 
did  n't  pretend  to  enjoy  the  merciless  hammering 
which  the  elements  were  administering  to  the  ship. 
Alison  retired  to  her  suite  immediately  after  the 
first  breakfast  and  stuck  religiously  therein  until 
the  weather  moderated,  thus  affording  Staff  no  chance 
to  talk  with  her  about  the  number  of  immediately 
interesting  things  on  his  mind.  While  Miss  Searle 
stayed  almost  as  steadily  in  her  quarters,  keep 
ing  out  of  harm's  way  and  reading,  she  told 


70  THE    BANDBOX 

Staff  when  they  met  at  meals.  Mrs.  Ilkington,  of 
course,  disappeared  as  promptly  as  Mrs.  Thataker. 
In  consequence  of  all  of  which,  Staff  found  himself 
thrown  back  for  companionship  on  Bangs,  who  bored 
him  to  the  point  of  extinction,  Arkroyd,  whom  he 
did  n't  like,  and  Iff,  who  kept  rather  out  of  the  way, 
dividing  his  time  between  his  two  passions  and 
merely  leering  at  the  younger  man,  a  leer  of  infi 
nite  cunning  and  derision,  when  chance  threw  them 
together. 

In  despair  of  finding  any  good  excuse  for  wasting 
his  time,  then,  Mr.  Staff  took  unto  himself  pens, 
ink,  paper  and  fortitude  and  —  surprised  even  him 
self  by  writing  that  fourth  act  and  finishing  his 
play.  Again  —  an  ill  wind ! 

And  then,  as  if  bent  on  proving  its  integral 
benevolence  so  far  as  concerned  Mr.  Staff,  the  wind 
shifted  and  sighed  and  died  —  beginning  the  oper 
ation  toward  sundown  of  the  third  day  out  from 
Queenstown.  The  morning  of  the  fourth  day  dawned 
clear  and  beautiful,  with  no  wind  worth  mentioning 
and  only  a  moderate  sea  running  —  not  enough  to 
make  much  of  an  impression  on  the  Autocratic. 
So  pretty  nearly  everybody  made  public  appear 
ance  at  one  time  or  another  during  the  morning,  and 
compared  notes  about  their  historic  sufferings,  and 


ISM  AY?  71 

quoted  the  stewardess  who  had  been  heard  to  say 
that  this  was  the  worst  westbound  passage  the  boat 
had  ever  made,  and  regained  their  complexions,  and 
took  notice  of  the  incipient  flirtations  and  —  well, 
settled  down  in  the  usual  way  to  enjoy  an  ocean 
voyage. 

Staff,  of  course,  was  on  deck  betimes,  with  an  eye 
eager  for  first  sight  of  Alison  and  another  heedful 
of  social  entanglements  which  might  prevent  him 
from  being  first  and  foremost  to  her  side  when 
she  did  appear.  But  for  all  his  watchfulness  and 
care,  Mrs.  Ilkington  forestalled  him  and  had  Alison 
in  convoy  before  Staff  discovered  her;  and  then 
Arkroyd  showed  up  and  Mrs.  Ilkington  annexed 
him,  and  Bangs  was  rounded  up  with  one  or  two 
others  and  made  to  pay  court  to  Mrs.  Ilkington's 
newly  snared  celebrity  and  .  .  .  Staff  went  away  and 
sulked  like  a  spoiled  child.  Nor  did  his  humour 
become  more  cheerful  when  at  lunch  he  discovered 
that  Mrs.  Ilkington  had  kept  two  seats  at  their 
table  reserved  for  Miss  Landis  and  Arkroyd.  It 
had  been  a  prearranged  thing,  of  course;  it  had  been 
Alison  with  whom  Mrs.  Ilkington  had  talked  about 
him  in  Paris;  and  evidently  Alison  had  been  es 
quired  by  Arkroyd  there.  Staff  did  n't  relish  the 
flavour  of  that  thought.  What  right  had  Arkroyd 


72  THE    BANDBOX 

to  constitute  himself  Alison's  cavalier  on  her  travels? 
For  that  matter,  what  right  had  Alison  to  accept 
him  in  such  a  capacity?  .  .  .  Though,  of  course, 
Staff  had  to  remind  himself  that  Alison  was  in 
reality  not  bound  in  any  way.  .  .  . 

But  he  had  his  reward  and  revenge  after  lunch. 
As  the  party  left  the  table  Alison  dropped  behind 
to  speak  to  him;  and  in  interchange  of  common 
places  they  allowed  the  others  to  distance  them 
beyond  earshot. 

"You  're  a  dear,"  the  young  woman  told  him  in 
a  discreet  tone  as  they  ascended  the  companionway. 

"I  'm  bound  to  say,"  he  told  her  with  a  faint, 
expiring  flicker  of  resentment,  "that  you  hardly 
treat  me  like  one." 

Her  eyes  held  his  with  their  smiling  challenge, 
half  provocative,  half  tender;  and  she  pouted  a 
little,  prettily.  In  this  mood  she  was  always  quite 
irresistible  to  Staff.  Almost  against  his  will  his 
dignity  and  his  pose  of  the  injured  person  evaporated 
and  became  as  if  they  had  never  been. 

"Just  the  same,"  she  declared,  laughing,  "you 
are  a  dear  —  if  you  don't  deserve  to  be  told  so." 

"What  have  I  done?"  he  demanded  guiltily  — 
knowing  very  well  on  what  counts  he  was  liable 
to  indictment. 


I  S  M  A  Y  ?  73 

"Oh,  nothing,"  said  Alison  —  "nothing  what 
ever.  You  've  only  been  haughty  and  aloof  and 
icy  and  indifferent  and  everything  else  that  men 
seem  to  consider  becoming  to  them  when  they  think 
they  're  neglected." 

"You  certainly  don't  expect  me  to  like  seeing 
Arkroyd  at  your  side  all  the  time?" 

"Oh!"  she  laughed  contemptuously  —  "Arkroyd!" 
And  she  dismissed  that  gentleman  with  a  fine  sweep 
ing  gesture.  "  Can  I  help  it  if  he  happens  to  travel 
on  the  same  ship?" 

They  halted  at  the  top  of  the  steps. 

"Then  it  was  accidental  —  ?"  he  asked  seriously. 

"Staff!"  The  young  woman  made  an  impatient 
movement.  "  If  I  did  n't  like  you  —  you  know 
how  much  —  upon  my  word  I  'd  snub  you  for  that. 
You  are  a  bear!" 

"A  moment  ago  I  was  a  dear." 
'Oh,  well,  I  'm  fond  of  all  sorts  of  animals." 

"Then  I  advise  your  future  husband  to  keep  you 
away  from  zoos." 

"Oh,  Staff!  But  would  n't  you  want  me  to  come 
to  see  you  once  in  a  while?" 

He  jerked  up  one  hand  with  the  gesture  of  a  man 
touched  in  a  fencing-bout.  "You  win,"  he  laughed. 
"  I  should  've  known  better.  ,  . " 


74  THE    BANDBOX 

But  she  made  her  regard  tender  consolation  for 
his  discomfiture.  "  You  have  n't  told  me  about 
the  play  —  our  play  —  my  play?  " 

"It's  finished." 

"Not  really,  Staff?"  She  clasped  her  hands  in 
a  charmingly  impulsive  way.  He  nodded,  smiling. 
"Is  it  good?" 

"You  '11  have  to  tell  me  that  —  you  and  Max." 

"Oh  — Max!  He 's  got  to  like  what  I  like.  When 
will  you  read  it  to  me?" 

"  Whenever  you  wish. " 

"This  afternoon?" 

"If  you  like." 

"  Oh,  good !  Now  I  'm  off  for  my  nap  —  only 
I  know  I  shan't  sleep,  I  'm  so  excited.  Bring  the 
'script  to  me  at  two  —  say,  half-past.  Come  to  my 
sitting-room;  we  can  be  alone  and  quiet,  and  after 
you  Ve  finished  we  can  have  tea  together  and  talk 
and  —  talk  our  silly  heads  off.  You  darling!" 

She  gave  him  a  parting  glance  calculated  to  turn 
any  man's  head,  and  swung  off  to  her  rooms,  the 
very  spirit  of  grace  incarnate  in  her  young  and 
vigorous  body. 

Staff  watched  her  with  a  kindling  eye,  then  shook  his 
head  as  one  who  doubts  —  as  if  doubting  his  own 
worthiness  —  and  went  off  to  his  own  stateroom  to 


I  S  M  A  Y  ?  75 

run  over  the  type-script  of  his  fourth  act:  being  for 
tunate  in  having  chosen  a  ship  which  carried  a  typist, 
together  with  almost  every  other  imaginable  convenience 
and  alleged  luxury  of  life  ashore. 

Punctual  to  the  minute,  manuscript  under  his  arm, 
he  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  sitting-room  of  the  suite 
de  luxe  occupied  by  the  actress.  Her  maid  admitted 
him  and  after  a  moment  or  two  Alison  herself  came  out 
of  her  stateroom,  in  a  wonderful  Parisian  tea-gown 
cunningly  designed  to  render  her  even  more  bewilder- 
ingly  bewitching  than  ever.  Staff  thought  her  so, 
beyond  any  question,  and  as  unquestionably  was 
his  thought  mirrored  in  his  eyes  as  he  rose  and  stood 
waiting  for  her  greeting  —  very  nearly  a-tremble,  if 
the  truth  's  to  be  told. 

Her  colour  deepened  as  she  came  toward  him  and 
then,  pausing  at  arm's  length,  before  he  could  lift  a 
hand,  stretched  forth  both  her  own  and  caught  him 
by  the  shoulders.  "My  dear!"  she  said  softly;  and  her 
eyes  were  bright  and  melting.  "My  dear,  dear  boy! 
It 's  so  sweet  to  see  you."  She  came  a  step  nearer, 
stood  upon  her  tiptoes  and  lightly  touched  his  cheek 
with  her  lips. 

"Alison   .    .    .   !"  he  cried  in  a  broken  voice. 

But  already  she  had  released  him  and  moved  away,, 
with  a  lithe  and  gracious  movement  evading  his  arms. 


76  THE     BANDBOX 

"No,"  she  told  him  firmly,  shaking  her  head:  "no 
more  than  that,  Staff.  You  must  n't  —  I  won't  have 
you  —  cany  on  as  if  we  were  children  —  yet" 

"But    Alison  —  " 

"No."  Again  she  shook  her  head.  "If  I  want  to 
kiss  you,  I  've  a  perfect  right  to;  but  that  does  n't  give 
you  any  licence  to  kiss  me  in  return.  Besides,  I  'm  not 
at  all  sure  I  'm  really  and  truly  in  love  with  you.  Now 
do  sit  down." 

He  complied  sulkily. 

"Are  you  in  the  habit  of  kissing  men  you  don't 
care  for?" 

"Yes,  frequently,"  she  told  him,  coolly  taking  the 
chair  opposite;  "I  'm  an  actress  —  if  you  've  forgotten 
the  fact." 

He  pondered  this,  frowning.  "I  don't  like  it,"  he 
announced  with  conviction. 

"  Neither  do  I  —  always."  She  relished  his  exas 
peration  for  a  moment  longer,  then  changed  her  tone. 
"  Do  be  sensible,  Staff.  I  'm  crazy  to  hear  that  play. 
How  long  do  you  mean  to  keep  me  waiting?  " 

He  knew  her  well  enough  to  understand  that  her 
moods  and  whims  must  be  humoured  like  a  —  well, 
like  any  other  star's.  She  was  pertinaciously  temper 
amental:  that  is  to  say,  spoiled;  beautiful  women  are 
so,  for  the  most  part  —  invariably  so,  if  on  the  stage. 


I  S  M  A  Y  ?  77 

That  kind  of  temperament  is  part  of  an  actress'  equip 
ment,  an  asset,  as  much  an  item  of  her  stock  in  trade 
as  any  trick  of  elocution  or  pantomime. 

So,  knowing  what  he  knew,  Staff  took  himself  in 
hand  and  prepared  to  make  the  best  of  the  situation. 
With  a  philosophic  shrug  and  the  wry,  quaint  smile  so 
peculiarly  his  own,  he  stretched  forth  a  hand  to  take 
up  his  manuscript;  but  in  the  very  act,  remembering, 
withheld  it. 

"Oh,  I'd  forgotten   ..." 

"What,  my  dear?"  asked  Alison,  smiling  back  to  his 
unsmiling  stare. 

"What  made  you  send  me  that  bandbox?"  he  de 
manded  without  further  preliminary;  for  he  suspected 
that  by  surprising  the  author  of  that  outrage,  and  by  no 
other  method,  would  he  arrive  at  the  truth. 

But  though  he  watched  the  woman  intently,  he  was 
able  to  detect  no  guilty  start,  no  evidence  of  confusion. 
Her  eyes  were  blank,  and  a  little  pucker  of  wonder 
showed  between  her  brows:  that  was  all. 

"Bandbox?"  she  repeated  enquiringly.  "What  do 
you  mean?" 

"  I  mean,"  he  pursued  with  a  purposeful,  omniscient 
air,  "  the  thing  you  bought  at  Lucille's,  the  day  before 
we  sailed,  and  had  sent  me  without  a  word  of  expla 
nation.  What  did  you  do  it  for?  " 


78  THE    BANDBOX 

Alison  relaxed  and  sat  back  in  her  chair,  laughing 
softly.  "Dear  boy,"  she  said  —  "do  you  know?  — 
you  're  quite  mad  —  quite!" 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  did  n't  —  ?  " 

"I  can't  even  surmise  what  you  're  talking  about." 

"That's  funny."  He  pondered  this,  staring.  "I 
made  sure  it  was  you.  Were  n't  you  in  London  last 
Friday?" 

"I?  Oh,  no.  Why,  did  n't  I  tell  you  I  only  left  Paris 
Saturday  morning?  That 's  why  we  had  to  travel  all 
day  to  catch  the  boat  at  Queenstown,  you  know." 

He  frowned.  "That's  true;  you  did  say  so.  .  .  . 
But  I  wish  I  could  imagine  what  it  all  means." 

"Tell  me;  I  'm  good  at  puzzles." 

So  he  recounted  the  story  of  the  bandbox  incognito, 
Alison  lending  her  attention  with  evident  interest, 
some  animation  and  much  quiet  amusement.  But 
when  he  had  finished,  she  shook  her  head. 

"  How  very  odd!  "  she  said  wonderingly.  "And  you 
have  no  idea  —  ?  " 

"Not  the  least  in  the  world,  now  that  you  Ve  estab 
lished  an  alibi.    Miss  Searle  knows,  but  —  " 

"What 's  that?"  demanded  Alison  quickly. 

"I  say,  Miss  Searle  knows,  but  she  won't  tell." 

"The  girl  who  sat  next  to  Bangs  at  lunch?" 

"Yes  —  " 


ISMAY?  79 

"But  how  is  that?    I  don't  quite  understand." 

"  Oh,  she  says  she  was  in  the  place  when  the  bandbox 
was  purchased  —  saw  the  whole  transaction;  but  it 's 
none  of  her  affair,  says  she,  so  she  won't  tell  me  any 
thing." 

"Conscientious  young  woman,"  said  Alison  approv 
ingly.  "But  are  you  quite  sure  you  have  exhausted 
every  means  of  identifying  the  true  culprit?  Did  you 
examine  the  box  yourself?  I  mean,  did  you  leave  it 
all  to  the  housemaid  —  what 's  her  name  —  Milly?  " 

He  nodded:   "Yes." 

"Then  she  may  have  overlooked  something.  Why 
take  her  word  for  it?  There  may  be  a  card  or  some 
thing  there  now." 

Staff  looked  startled  and  chagrined.  "That's  so. 
It  never  occurred  to  me.  I  am  a  bonehead,  and  no  mis 
take.  I  '11  just  take  a  look,  after  we  Ve  run  through 
this  play." 

"Why  wait?  Send  for  it  now.  I  'd  like  to  see  for 
myself,  if  there  is  anything:  you  see,  you  Ve  roused  a 
woman's  curiosity;  I  want  to  know.  Let  me  send 
Jane." 

Without  waiting  for  his  consent,  Alison  summoned 
the  maid.  "Jane,"  said  she,  "I  want  you  to  go  to 
Mr.  Staff's  stateroom  — " 

"Excuse  me/'  Staff  interrupted.    "Find  the  steward 


80  THE    BANDBOX 

named  Orde  and  ask  him  for  the  bandbox  I  gave  him 
to  take  care  of.  Then  bring  it  here,  please." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Jane;  and  forthwith  departed. 

"And  now  —  while  we  're  waiting,"  suggested  Alison 
—  "the  play,  if  you  please." 

" Not  yet,"  said  Staff.  "  I  Ve  something  else  to  talk 
about  that  I  'd  forgotten.  Manvers,  the  purser  —  " 

"Good  Heavens!"  Alison  interrupted  in  exaspera 
tion.  She  rose,  with  a  general  movement  of  extreme 
annoyance.  "Am  I  never  to  hear  the  last  of  that  man? 
He  's  been  after  me  every  day,  and  sometimes  twice 
a  day.  .  .  .  He 's  a  personified  pest!" 

"But  he  's  right,  you  know,"  said  Staff  quietly. 

"  Right !    Right  about  what?  " 

"In  wanting  you  to  let  him  take  care  of  that  neck 
lace  —  the  what-you-may-call-it  thing  —  the  Cadogan 
collar." 

"How  do  you  know  I  have  it?" 

"You  admitted  as  much  to  Manvers,  and  Mrs. 
Ilkington  says  you  have  it." 

"But  why  need  everybody  know  about  it?" 

"  Enquire  of  Mrs.  Ilkington.  If  you  wanted  the  mat 
ter  kept  secret,  why  in  the  sacred  name  of  the  great 
god  Publicity  did  you  confide  in  that  queen  of  press 
agents?" 

"She  had  no  right  to  say  anything  — " 


I  S  M  A  Y  ?  81 

"Granted.  So  you  actually  have  got  that  collar 
with  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  Alison  admitted  indifferently,  "I  have  it." 

"In  this  room?" 

"Of  course." 

"Then  be  advised  and  take  no  chances." 

Alison  had  been  pacing  to  and  fro,  impatiently.  Now 
she  stopped,  looking  down  at  him  without  any  abate 
ment  of  her  show  of  temper. 

"You  're  as  bad  as  all  the  rest,"  she  complained. 
"I  'm  a  woman  grown,  in  full  possession  of  my  fac 
ulties.  The  collar  is  perfectly  safe  in  my  care.  It 's 
here,  in  this  room,  securely  locked  up." 

"But  someone  might  break  in  while  you  're  out  — h 

"  Either  Jane  is  here  all  the  time,  or  I  am.  It 's 
never  left  to  itself  a  single  instant.  It 's  perfectly 
ridiculous  to  suppose  we  're  going  to  let  anybody  rob 
us  of  it.  Besides,  where  would  a  thief  go  with  it,  if 
he  did  succeed  in  stealing  it  —  overboard?" 

"  I  'm  willing  to  risk  a  small  bet  he  'd  manage  to 
hide  it  so  that  it  would  take  the  whole  ship's  com 
pany,  and  a  heap  of  good  luck  into  the  bargain,  to 
find  it." 

"Well,"  said  the  woman  defiantly,  "I  'm  not  afraid, 
and  I  'm  not  going  to  be  browbeaten  by  any  scare-cat 
purser  into  behaving  like  a  kiddie  afraid  of  the  dark. 


82  THE    BANDBOX 

I  'm  quite  competent  to  look  after  my  own  property, 
and  I  purpose  doing  so  without  anybody's  supervision. 
Now  let's  have  that  understood,  Staff;  and  don't 
you  bother  me  any  more  about  this  matter." 

"Thanks,"  said  Staff  drily;  "I  fancy  you  can  count 
on  me  to  know  when  I  'm  asked  to  mind  my  own  busi 
ness." 

"  Oh,  I  did  n't  mean  that  —  not  that  way,  dear  boy 
—  but—" 

At  this  juncture  the  maid  entered  with  the  bandbox, 
and  Alison  broke  off  with  an  exclamation  of  diverted 
interest. 

"There!  Let's  say  no  more  about  this  tiresome 
jewel  business.  I  'm  sure  this  is  going  to  prove  ever  so 
much  more  amusing.  Open  it,  Jane,  please." 

In  another  moment  the  hat  was  in  her  hands  and 
both  she  and  Jane  were  giving  passably  good  imita 
tions  —  modified  by  their  respective  personalities  — 
of  Milly's  awe-smitten  admiration  of  the  thing. 

Staff  was  conscious  of  a  sensation  of  fatigue.  Bend 
ing  over,  he  drew  the  bandbox  to  him  and  began  to 
examine  the  wrappings  and  wads  of  tissue-paper  which 
it  still  contained. 

"It 's  a  perfect  dear!"  said  Miss  Landis  in  accents  of 
the  utmost  sincerity. 

"Indeed,  mum,"  chimed  Jane,  antiphonal. 


ISMAY?  83 

"Whoever  your  anonymous  friend  may  be,  she  has 
exquisite  taste." 

"Indeed,  mum,"  chanted  the  chorus. 

"May  I  try  it  on,  Staff?" 

"What?"  said  the  young  man  absently,  absorbed  in 
his  search.  "Oh,  yes;  certainly.  Help  yourself." 

Alison  moved  across  to  the  long  mirror  set  in  the 
door  communicating  with  her  bedroom.  Here  she 
paused,  carefully  adjusting  the  hat  to  her  shapely 
head. 

"Now,  sir!"  she  exclaimed,  turning. 

Staff  sat  back  in  his  chair  and  looked  his  fill  of  admi 
ration.  The  hat  might  have  been  designed  expressly  for 
no  other  purpose  than  to  set  off  this  woman's  imperious 
loveliness:  such  was  the  thought  eloquent  in  his 
expression. 

Satisfied  with  his  dumb  tribute,  Alison  lifted  off  the 
hat  and  deposited  it  upon  a  table. 

"Find  anything?"  she  asked  lightly. 

"Not  a  word,"  said  he  —  "not  a  sign  of  a  clue.'* 

"What  a  disappointment!"  she  sighed.  "I  'm  wild 
to  know.  .  .  .  Suppose,"  said  she,  posing  herself 
before  him,  —  "suppose  the  owner  never  did  turn  up 
after  all?" 

"Hum"  said  Staff,  perturbed  by  such  a  prospect. 

"What  would  you  do  with  it?" 


84  THE    BANDBOX 

"Hum"  said  he  a  second  time,  non-committal. 

"You  couldn't  wear  it  yourself;  it  's  hardly  an 
ornament  for  a  bachelor's  study.  What  would  you  do 
with  it?" 

"  I  think,"  said  Staff,  "  I  hear  my  cue  to  say :  I  'd  give 
it  to  the  most  beautiful  woman  alive,  of  course." 

"Thank  you,  dear,"  returned  Alison  serenely. 
"Don't  forget." 

She  moved  back  to  her  chair,  humming  a  little  tune 
almost  inaudibly;  and  in  passing  lightly  brushed  his 
forehead  with  her  hand  —  the  ghost  of  a  caress. 

"  You  may  go,  Jane,"  said  she,  sitting  down  to  face 
her  lover;  and  when  the  maid  had  shut  herself  out  of 
the  room:  "Now,  dear,  read  me  our  play,"  said 
Alison,  composing  herself  to  attention. 

Staff  took  up  his  manuscript  and  began  to  read 
aloud.  .  .  . 

Three  hours  elapsed  before  he  put  aside  the  fourth 
act  and  turned  expectantly  to  Alison. 

Elbow  on  knee  and  chin  in  hand,  eyes  fixed  upon  his 
face,  she  sat  as  one  entranced,  unable  still  to  shake  off 
the  spell  of  his  invention:  more  lovely,  he  thought,  in 
this  mood  of  thoughtfulness  even  than  in  her  brightest 
animation.  .  .  .  Then  with  a  little  sigh  she  roused, 
relaxed  her  pose,  and  sat  back,  faintly  smiling. 

"  Well?  "  he  asked  diffidently.    "  What  do  you  think?  " 


I  S  M  A  Y  ?  85 

"It's  splendid,"  she  said  with  a  soft,  warm  glow 
of  enthusiasm  —  "simply  splendid.  It's  coherent,  it 
hangs  together  from  start  to  finish;  you  Ve  got  little 
to  learn  about  construction,  my  dear.  And  my  part 
is  magnificent:  never  have  I  had  such  a  chance  to  show 
what  I  can  do  with  comedy.  I  'm  delighted  beyond 
words.  But  ..."  She  sighed  again,  distrait. 

"But  —  ?"  he  repeated  anxiously. 

"There  are  one  or  two  minor  things,"  she  said  with 
shadowy  regret,  "that  you  will  want  to  change,  I 
think:  nothing  worth  mentioning,  nothing  important 
enough  to  mar  the  wonderful  cleverness  of  it  all." 

"  But  tell  me  — ?" 

"Oh,  it 's  hardly  worth  talking  about,  dear  boy. 
Only  —  there 's  the  ingenue  role;  you  've  given  her 
too  much  to  do;  she 's  on  the  stage  in  all  of 
my  biggest  scenes,  and  has  business  enough  in 
them  to  spoil  my  best  effects.  Of  course,  that  can 
be  arranged.  And  then  the  leading  man's  part  —  I 
don't  want  to  seem  hypercritical,  but  he  's  altogether 
too  clever;  you  mustn't  let  him  overshadow  the 
heroine  the  way  he  does;  some  of  his  business  is 
plainly  hers  —  I  can  see  myself  doing  it  infinitely 
better  than  any  leading  man  we  could  afford  to 
engage.  And  those  witty  lines  you  Ve  put  into  his 
mouth  —  I  must  have  them;  you  won't  find  it  hard, 


86  THE    BANDBOX 

I  'm  sure,  to  twist  the  lines  a  bit,  so  that  they  come 
from  the  heroine  rather  than  the  hero.  ..." 

Staff  held  up  a  warning  hand,  and  laughed. 

"Just  a  minute,  Alison,"  said  he.  "Remember  this 
is  a  play,  not  a  background  for  you.  And  with  a  play 
it 's  much  as  with  matrimony:  if  either  turns  out  to  be 
a  monologue  it 's  bound  to  be  a  failure." 

Alison  frowned  slightly,  then  forced  a  laugh,  and  rose. 
"You  authors  are  all  alike,"  she  complained,  pouting; 
"  I  mean,  as  authors.  But  I  'm  not  going  to  have  any 
trouble  with  you,  dear  boy.  We  '11  agree  on  everything; 
I  'm  going  to  be  reasonable  and  you ' ve  got  to  be.  Be 
sides,  we  Ve  heaps  of  time  to  talk  it  over.  Now  I  'm 
going  to  change  and  get  up  on  deck.  Will  you  wait  for 
me  in  the  saloon,  outside?  I  shan't  be  ten  minutes." 

"Will  I?"  he  laughed.  "Your  only  trouble  will  be 
to  keep  me  away  from  your  door,  this  trip."  He 
gathered  up  his  manuscript  and  steamer-cap,  then  with 
his  hand  on  the  door-knob  paused.  "Oh,  I  forgot  that 
blessed  bandbox!" 

"Never  mind  that  now,"  said  Alison.  "I'll  have 
Jane  repack  it  and  take  it  back  to  your  steward. 
Besides,  I  'm  in  a  hurry,  stifling  for  fresh  air.  Just  give 
me  twenty  minutes.  ..." 

She  offered  him  a  hand,  and  he  bowed  his  lips  to  it; 
then  quietly  let  himself  out  into  the  alleyway. 


VI 

IFF? 

LATE  that  night,  Staff  drifted  into  the  smoking- 
room,  which  he  found  rather  sparsely  patron 
ised.  This  fact  surprised  him  no  less  than  its 
explanation:  it  was  after  eleven  o'clock.  He  had 
hardly  realised  the  flight  of  time,  so  absorbed  had 
he  been  all  evening  in  argument  with  Alison  Landis. 

There  remained  in  the  smoking-room,  at  this  late 
hour,  but  half  a  dozen  detached  men,  smoking  and 
talking  over  their  nightcaps,  and  one  table  of 
bridge  players  —  in  whose  number,  of  course,  there 
was  Mr.  Iff. 

Nodding  abstractedly  to  the  little  man,  Staff 
found  a  quiet  corner  and  sat  him  down  with  a  sigh 
and  a  shake  of  his  head  that  illustrated  vividly  his 
frame  of  mind.  He  was  a  little  blue  and  more  than  a 
little  distressed.  And  this  was  nothing  but  natural, 
since  he  was  still  in  the  throes  of  the  discovery  that 
one  man  can  hardly  with  success  play  the  dual  role  of 
playwright  and  sweetheart  to  a  successful  actress. 

87 


88  THE     BANDBOX 

Alison  was  charming,  he  told  himself,  a  woman 
incomparable,  tenderly  sweet  and  desirable;  and 
he  loved  her  beyond  expression.  But  ...  his 
play  was  also  more  than  a  slight  thing  in  his  life. 
It  meant  a  good  deal  to  him;  he  had  worked  hard 
and  put  the  best  that  was  in  him  into  its  making;  and 
hard  as  the  work  had  been,  it  had  been  a  labour 
of  love.  He  was  n't  a  man  to  overestimate  his 
ability;  he  possessed  a  singularly  sane  and  clear 
appreciation  of  the  true  value  of  his  work,  harbour 
ing  no  illusions  as  to  his  real  status  either  as  drama 
tist  or  novelist.  But  at  the  same  time,  he  knew 
when  he  had  done  good  work.  And  A  Single  Woman 
promised  to  be  a  good  play,  measured  by  modern 
standards:  not  great,  but  sound  and  clear  and 
strong.  The  plot  was  of  sufficient  originality  to 
command  attention;  the  construction  was  clear, 
sane,  inevitable;  he  had  mixed  the  elements  of 
comedy  and  drama  with  the  deftness  of  a  sure  hand; 
and  he  had  carefully  built  up  the  characters  in  true 
proportion  to  one  another  and  to  their  respective 
significance  in  the  action. 

Should  all  this  then,  be  garbled  and  distorted  to 
satisfy  a  woman's  passion  for  the  centre  of  the  stage? 
Must  he  be  untrue  to  the  fundamentals  of  drama 
turgic  art  in  order  to  earn  her  tolerance?  Could 


IFF?  89 

he  gain  his  own  consent  to  present  to  the  public  as 
work  representative  of  his  fancy  the  misshapen 
monstrosity  which  would  inevitably  result  of  yield 
ing  to  Alison's  insistence? 

Small  wonder  that  he  sighed  and  wagged  a  doleful 
head! 

Now  while  all  this  was  passing  through  a  mind 
wrapped  in  gloomy  and  profound  abstraction,  Iff's 
voice  disturbed  him. 

"Pity  the  poor  playwright!"  it  said  in  accents 
of  amusement. 

Looking  up,  Staff  discovered  that  the  little  man 
stood  before  him,  a  furtive  twinkle  in  his  pale 
blue  eyes.  The  bridge  game  had  broken  up,  and 
they  two  were  now  alone  in  the  smoking-room  — 
saving  the  presence  of  a  steward  yawning  sleepily 
and  wishing  to  'Eaven  they  'd  turn  in  and  give  'im 
a  charnce  to  snatch  a  wink  o'  sleep. 

"Hello/'  said  Staff,  none  too  cordially.  "What 
d'  you  mean  by  that? " 

"Hello,"  responded  Iff,  dropping  upon  the  cush 
ioned  seat  beside  him.  He  snapped  his  fingers  at 
the  steward.  "Give  it  a  name,"  said  he. 

Staff  gave  it  a  name.  "You  don't  answer  me," 
he  persisted.  "Why  pity  the  poor  playwright?" 

"He  has  his  troubles,"  quoth  Mr.  Iff  cheerfully, 


90  THE     BANDBOX 

if  vaguely.  "Need  I  enumerate  them,  to  you?  Any 
way,  if  the  poor  playwright  is  n't  to  be  pitied,  what 
right  Ve  you  got  to  stick  round  here  looking  like 
that?" 

"Oh!"  Staff  laughed  uneasily.  "I  was  think 
ing " 

"I  flattered  you  to  the  extent  of  surmising  as 
much."  Iff  elevated  one  of  the  glasses  which  had 
just  been  put  before  them.  "Chin-chin,"  said  he  — 
"  that  is,  if  you  've  no  particular  objection  to  chin- 
chinning  with  a  putative  criminal  of  the  d'p'st 
dye?" 

"None  whatever,"  returned  Staff,  lifting  his  own 
glass  —  "  at  least,  not  so  long  as  it  affords  me  con 
tinued  opportunity  to  watch  him  cooking  up  his 
cunning  little  crimes." 

"Ah!"  cried  Iff  with  enthusiasm  —  "there  spoke 
the  true  spirit  of  Sociological  Research.  Long  may 
you  rave!" 

He  set  down  an  empty  glass. 

Staff  laughed,  sufficiently  diverted  to  forget  his 
troubles  for  the  time  being. 

"I  wish  I  could  make  you  out,"  he  said  slowly, 
eyeing  the  older  man. 

"You  mean  you  hope  I  'm  not  going  to  take  you 
in." 


IFF?  91 

"Either  way  —  or  both:    please  yourself." 

"Ah!"  said  the  little  man  appreciatively  —  "I  am 
a  deep  one,  ain't  I?" 

He  laid  a  finger  alongside  his  nose  and  looked 
unutterably  enigmatic. 

At  this  point  they  were  interrupted:  a  man  burst 
into  the  smoking-room  from  the  deck  and  pulled  up 
breathing  heavily,  as  if  he  had  been  running,  while 
he  raked  the  room  with  quick,  enquiring  glances. 
Staff  recognised  Mr.  Manvers,  the  purser,  betraying 
every  evidence  of  a  disturbed  mind.  At  the  same 
moment,  Manvers  caught  sight  of  the  pair  in  the 
corner  and  made  for  them. 

"Mr.  Ismay — "  he  began,  halting  before  their 
table  and  glaring  gloomily  at  Staff's  companion. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  person  addressed, 
icily;  "my  name  is  Iff." 

Manvers  made  an  impatient  movement  with  one 
hand.  "  Iff  or  Ismay  —  it 's  all  one  to  me  —  to 
you  too,  I  fancy  — " 

"One  moment!"  snapped  Iff,  rising.  "If  you 
were  an  older  man,"  he  said  stiffly,  "and  a  smaller, 
I  'd  pull  your  impertinent  nose,  sir!  As  things 
stand,  I  'd  probably  get  my  head  punched  if  I  did." 

"That's  sound  logic,"  returned  Manvers  with  a 
sneer. 


92  THE    BANDBOX 

"Well,  then,  sir?    What  do  you  want  with  me?" 

Manvers  changed  his  attitude  to  one  of  sardonic 
civility.  "The  captain  sent  me  to  ask  you  if  you 
would  be  kind  enough  to  step  up  to  his  cabin,"  he 
said  stiltedly.  "  May  I  hope  you  will  be  good  enough 
to  humour  him?" 

"Most  assuredly,"  Iff  picked  up  his  steamer-cap 
and  set  it  jauntily  upon  his  head.  "Might  one 
enquire  the  cause  of  all  this-here  fluster?" 

"I  daresay  the  captain  — " 

"Oh,  very  well.  If  you  won't  talk,  my  dear 
purser,  I  '11  hazard  a  shrewd  guess  —  by  your  leave." 

The  purser  stared.    "What 's  that?" 

"I  was  about  to  say,"  pursued  Iff  serenely,  "that 
I  '11  lay  two  to  one  that  the  Cadogan  collar  has 
disappeared." 

Manvers  continued  to  stare,  his  eyes  blank  with 
amazement.  "You  've  got  your  nerve  with  you,  I 
must  say,"  he  growled. 

"Or  guilty  knowledge?    Which,  Mr.  Manvers?'* 

A  reply  seemed  to  tremble  on  Manver's  lips,  but 
to  be  withheld  at  discretion.  "  I  'm  not  the  captain," 
he  said  after  a  slight  pause;  "go  and  cheek  him 
as  far  as  you  like.  And  we  're  keeping  him  waiting, 
if  I  may  be  permitted  to  mention  it." 

Iff  turned  to  Staff,  with  an  engaging  smile.    "Re- 


IFF?  93 

jecting  the  guilty  knowledge  hypothesis,  for  the 
sake  of  the  argument,"  said  he:  "you  '11  admit  I  'm 
the  only  suspicious  personage  known  to  be  aboard; 
so  it 's  not  such  a  wild  guess  —  that  the  collar  has 
vanished  —  when  I  'm  sent  for  by  the  captain  at 
this  unearthly  hour.  .  .  .  Lead  on,  Mr.  Manvers," 
he  wound  up  with  a  dramatic  gesture. 

The  purser  nodded  and  turned  toward  the  door* 
Staff  jumped  up  and  followed  the  pair. 

"You  don't  mind  my  coming?"  he  asked. 

"  No  —  wish  you  would ;  you  can  bear  witness- 
to  the  captain  that  I  did  everything  in  my  power 
to  make  Miss  Landis  appreciate  the  danger — " 

"Then,"  Iff  interrupted  suavely,  "the  collar  has 
disappeared  —  we  're  to  understand?" 

"Yes,"  the  purser  assented  shortly. 

They  scurried  forward  and  mounted  the  ladder  to 
the  boat-deck,  where  the  captain's  quarters  were 
situated  in  the  deckhouse  immediately  abaft  the 
bridge.  From  an  open  door  —  for  the  night  was 
as  warm  as  it  was  dark  —  a  wide  stream  of  light 
fell  athwart  the  deck,  like  gold  upon  black  velvet. 

Pausing  en  silhouette  against  the  glow,  the  purser 
knocked  discreetly.  Iff  ranged  up  beside  him, 
dwarfed  by  comparison.  Staff  held  back  at  a  little 
distance. 


94  THE    BANDBOX 

A  voice  from  within  barked:  "Oh,  come  in!" 
Iff  and  Manvers  obeyed.  Staff  paused  on  the 
threshold,  bending  his  head  to  escape  the  lintel. 

Standing  thus,  he  appreciated  the  tableau:  the 
neat,  tidy  little  room  —  commodious  for  a  steam 
ship  —  glistening  with  white-enamelled  woodwork 
in  the  radiance  of  half  a  dozen  electric  bulbs;  Alison 
in  a  steamer-coat  seated  on  the  far  side  of  a  chart- 
table,  her  colouring  unusually  pallid,  her  brows 
knitted  and  eyes  anxious;  the  maid,  Jane,  standing 
respectfully  behind  her  mistress;  Manvers  to  one 
side  and  out  of  the  way,  but  plainly  eager  and  dis 
traught;  Iff  in  the  centre  of  the  stage,  his  slight, 
round-shouldered  figure  lending  him  a  deceptive 
effect  of  embarrassment  which  was  only  enhanced 
by  his  semi-placating,  semi-wistful  smile  and  his 
small,  blinking  eyes;  the  captain  looming  over  him, 
authority  and  menace  incarnate  in  his  heavy, 
square-set,  sturdy  body  and  heavy-browed,  square- 
jawed,  beardless  and  weathered  face.  .  .  . 

Manvers  said:  "This  is  Mr.  Iff,  Captain  Cobb." 

The  captain  nodded  brusquely.  His  hands  were 
in  his  coat-pockets;  he  did  n't  offer  to  remove 
them.  Iff  blinked  up  at  him  and  cocked  his  small 
head  critically  to  one  side,  persistently  smiling. 

"I've  heard  so  much  of  you,  sir,"  he  said  in  a 


IFF?  95 

husky,  weary  voice,  very  subdued.  "  It 's  a  real 
pleasure  to  make  your  acquaintance." 

Captain  Cobb  noticed  this  bit  of  effrontery  by 
nothing  more  than  a  growl  deep  in  this  throat.  His 
eyes  travelled  on,  above  Iff's  head,  and  Staff  was 
conscious  of  their  penetrating  and  unfriendly  ques 
tion.  He  bowed  uncertainly. 

"Oh  — and  Mr.  Staff,"  said  Manvers  hastily. 

"Well?"  said  the  captain  without  moving. 

"  A  friend  of  Miss  Landis  and  also  —  curiously 
—  in  the  same  room  with  Mr.  Iff. ' ' 

"Ah,"  remarked  the  captain.  "How-d'-you-do?" 
He  removed  his  right  hand  from  its  pocket  and 
held  it  out  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  wishes  it  under 
stood  that  by  such  action  he  commits  himself  to 
nothing. 

Before  Staff  could  grasp  it,  Iff  shook  it  heartily. 
"Ah,"  he  said  blandly,  "h'  are  ye?"  Then  he 
dropped  the  hand,  thereby  preventing  the  captain 
from  wrenching  it  away,  and  averted  his  eyes  mod 
estly,  thereby  escaping  the  captain's  outraged  glare. 

Staff  managed  to  overcome  an  impulse  to  laugh 
idiotically,  and  gravely  shook  hands  with  the  cap 
tain.  He  had  already  exchanged  a  glance  with  the 
lady  of  his  heart's  desire. 

An  insanely  awkward  pause  marked  Iff's  exhibi- 


96  THE    BANDBOX 

tion  of  matchless  impudence.  Each  hesitated  to 
speak  while  the  captain  was  occupied  with  a  vain 
attempt  to  make  Iff  realise  his  position  by  scowling 
at  him  out  of  a  blood-congested  countenance.  But 
of  this,  Iff  appeared  to  be  wholly  unconscious. 
When  the  situation  seemed  all  but  unendurable  for 
another  second  (Staff  for  one  was  haunted  by  the 
fear  that  he  would  throw  back  his  head  and  bray 
like  a  mule)  Manvers  took  it  upon  himself  to  ease 
the  tension,  hardily  earning  the  undying  gratitude 
of  all  the  gathering. 

"I  asked  Mr.  Staff  to  come  and  tell  you,  sir,"  he 
said  haltingly,  "that  I  spoke  to  him  about  this 
matter  the  very  night  we  left  Queenstown  —  asked 
him  to  do  what  he  could  to  make  Miss  Landis 
appreciate  — " 

"I  see,"  the  captain  cut  him  short. 

"That  is  so,"  Staff  affirmed.  "Unfortunately 
I  had  no  opportunity  until  this  afternoon — " 

Alison  interposed  quietly:  "I  am  quite  ready 
to  exonerate  Mr.  Manvers  from  all  blame.  In  fact, 
he  has  really  annoyed  me  with  his  efforts  to  induce 
me  to  turn  the  collar  over  to  his  care." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Manvers  bowing. 

There  was  the  faintest  tinge  of  sarcasm  in  the 
acknowledgment.  Staff  could  see  that  Alison  felt 


IFF?  97 

and  resented  it;  and  the  thought  popped  into  his 
mind,  and  immediately  out  again,  that  she  was 
scarcely  proving  herself  generous. 

"It 's  a  very  serious  matter,"  announced  the  cap 
tain  heavily  —  "  serious  for  the  service :  for  the 
officers,  for  the  good  name  of  the  ship,  for  the  repu 
tation  of  the  company.  This  is  the  second  time  a 
crime  of  this  nature  had  been  committed  aboard 
the  Autocratic  within  a  period  of  eighteen  months  — 
less  than  that,  in  fact.  It  was  June,  a  year  ago,  that 
Mrs.  Burden  Hamman's  jewels  were  stolen  —  on 
the  eastbound  passage,  I  believe." 

"We  sailed  from  New  York,  June  22,"  affirmed 
the  purser. 

"  I  want,  therefore,"  continued  the  captain,  "to 
ask  you  all  to  preserve  silence  about  this  affair  until 
it  has  been  thoroughly  sifted.  I  believe  the  knowl 
edge  of  the  theft  is  confined  to  those  present." 

"Quite  so,  sir,"  agreed  the  purser. 

"May  I  ask  how  it  happened?"  Staff  put  in. 

The  captain  swung  on  his  heel  and  bowed  to 
Alison.  She  bent  forward,  telling  her  story  with 
brevity  and  animation. 

"You  remember"  —  she  looked  at  Staff  —  "when 
we  met  in  the  saloon,  about  half-past  five,  and  went 
on  deck?  .  .  .  Well,  right  after  that,  Jane  left  my 


98  THE    BANDBOX 

rooms  to  return  the  hat  you  had  been  showing  me 
to  your  steward.  She  was  gone  not  over  five  min 
utes,  and  she  swears  the  door  was  locked  all  the  time; 
she  remembers  locking  it  when  she  went  out  and 
unlocking  it  when  she  returned.  There  was  no 
indication  that  anybody  had  been  in  the  rooms, 
except  one  that  we  did  n't  discover  until  I  started 
to  go  to  bed,  a  little  while  ago.  Then  I  thought  of 
my  jewels.  They  were  all  kept  in  this  handbag" 
—  she  dropped  a  hand  upon  a  rather  small  Law 
rence  bag  of  tan  leather  on  the  table  before  her  — 
"under  my  bed,  behind  the  steamer  trunk.  I  told 
Jane  to  see  if  it  was  all  right.  She  got  it  out, 
and  then  we  discovered  that  this  had  happened 
to  it." 

She  turned  the  bag  so  that  the  other  side  was 
presented  for  inspection,  disclosing  the  fact  that 
some  sharp  instrument  had  been  used  to  cut  a  great 
flap  out  of  the  leather,  running  in  a  rough  semicircle 
from  clasp  to  clasp  of  the  frame. 

"It  was  n't  altogether  empty,"  she  declared  with 
a  trace  of  wonder  in  her  voice;  "but  that  only 
makes  it  all  the  more  mysterious.  All  my  ordinary 
jewels  were  untouched;  nothing  had  been  taken 
except  the  case  that  held  the  Cadogan  collar." 

"And  the  collar  itself,  I  hope?"  Iff  put  in  quietly. 


IFF?  99 

The  actress  turned  upon  him  with  rising  colour. 

"You  hope  — !"  she  exclaimed. 

The  little  man  made  a  deprecatory  gesture.  "  Why, 
yes,"  he  said.  "It  would  seem  a  pity  that  a  crook 
cute  enough  to  turn  a  trick  as  neat  as  that  should 
have  got  nothing  for  his  pains  but  a  velvet-lined 
leather  case,  worth  perhaps  a  dollar  and  a  half  — 
or  say  two  dollars  at  the  outside,  if  you  make  a  point 
of  that." 

"How  do  you  happen  to  know  it  was  a  velvet- 
lined  leather  case?"  Alison  flashed. 

Iff  laughed  quietly.  "My  dear  lady,"  he  said, 
"I  priced  the  necklace  at  Cottier's  in  Paris  the 
day  before  you  purchased  it.  Unfortunately  it  was 
beyond  my  means." 

"A  bit  thick,"  commented  the  purser  in  an  acid 
voice. 

"Now,  listen"  —  Iff  turned  to  face  him  with  a 
flush  of  choler  —  "  you  keep  on  that  way  and  I  '11 
land  on  you  if  it 's  the  last  act  of  my  gay  young  life. 
You  hear  me?" 

"That  will  do,  sir!"  barked  the  captain. 

"  I  trust  so,  sincerely,"  replied  Iff. 

"Be  silent!"  The  captain's  voice  ascended  a  full 
octave. 

"  Oh,  very  well,  very  well.     I  hear  you  —  per- 


100  THE    BANDBOX 

fectly."     With  this  the  little  man  subsided,  smiling 
feebly  at  vacancy. 

Staff  interposed  hastily,  in  the  interests  of  peace: 
"The  supposition  is,  then,  that  the  thief  got  in 
during  those  five  minutes  that  Jane  was  away  from 
the  room?" 

"  It  could  n't  have  happened  at  any  other  time, 
of  course,"  said  Alison. 

"And,  equally  of  course,  it  couldn't  have  hap 
pened  then,"  said  Iff. 

"Why  not?"  the  woman  demanded. 

"  The  girl  was  gone  only  five  minutes.  That 's 
right,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Jane. 

"  And  the  door  was  locked  —  you  're  positive 
about  that?" 

"Quite,  sir." 

"Then  will  anyone  explain  how  any  thief  could 
effect  an  entrance,  pull  a  heavy  steamer  trunk  out 
from  under  a  bed,  get  at  the  bag,  cut  a  slit  in  its 
side,  extract  the  leather  case  —  and  the  collar,  to 
be  sure  —  replace  the  bag,  replace  the  trunk,  leave 
the  stateroom  and  lock  the  door,  all  in  five  short 
minutes  —  and  without  any  key?"  Iff  wound  up 
triumphantly:  "I  tell  you,  it  couldn't  be  done; 
it  ain't  human." 


IFF?  101 

"But  a  skeleton-key — "  Manvers  began. 

"O  you!"  said  Iff  with  a  withering  glance. 
"The  door  to  Miss  Landis'  suite  opens  directly 
opposite  the  head  of  the  main  companionway,  which 
is  in  constant  use  —  people  going  up  and  down  all 
the  time.  Can  you  see  anybody,  however  expert, 
picking  a  lock  with  a  bunch  of  skeleton-keys  in  that 
exposed  position  without  being  caught  red-handed? 
Not  on  your  vivid  imagination,  young  man." 

"There  may,  however,  be  duplicate  keys  to  the 
staterooms,"  Alison  countered. 

"My  dear  lady/'  said  Iff,  humbly,  "there  are; 
and  unless  this  ship  differs  radically  from  others, 
those  duplicate  keys  are  all  in  the  purser's  care. 
Am  I  right,  Mr.  Manvers?" 

"Yes,"  said  Manvers  sullenly. 

"And  here's  another  point,"  resumed  Iff.  "May 
I  ask  you  a  question  or  two,  Miss  Landis?"  Alison 
nodded  curtly.  "You  kept  the  handbag  locked, 
I  presume?  " 

"Certainly." 

"  And  when  you  found  it  had  been  tampered  with, 
did  you  unlock  it?" 

"There  wasn't  any  need,"  said  Alison.  "You 
can  see  for  yourself  the  opening  in  the  side  is  so 
large—" 


102  THE    BANDBOX 

"Then  you  did  n't  unlock  it?" 

"No." 

"That  only  makes  it  the  more  mysterious.  Be 
cause,  you  see,  it 's  unlocked  now." 

There  was  a  concerted  movement  of  astonishment. 

"How  do  you  make  that  out,  sir?"  demanded 
the  captain. 

"You  can  see  for  yourself  (to  borrow  Miss  Landis' 
phrase)  if  you  '11  only  use  your  eyes,  as  I  have.  The 
side  clasps  are  in  place,  all  right,  but  the  slide  on 
the  lock  itself  is  pushed  a  trifle  to  the  left;  which  it 
could  n't  be  if  the  bag  were  locked." 

There  was  a  hint  of  derision  in  the  little  man's 
voice;  and  his  sarcastic  smile  was  flickering  round 
his  thin  lips  as  he  put  out  one  hand,  drew  the  bag 
to  him,  lifted  the  clasps,  and  pushing  back  the  lock- 
slide,  opened  it  wide. 

"The  thot  plickens,"  he  observed  gravely.  "For 
my  part  I  am  unable  to  imagine  any  bold  and  enter 
prising  crook  taking  the  trouble  to  cut  open  this 
bag  when  the  most  casual  examination  would  have 
shown  him  that  it  was  n't  locked." 

"  He  might  've  done  it  as  a  blind.  ..."  Manvers 
suggested. 

"Officer!"  piped  Iff  in  a  plaintive  voice  —  "he  's 
in  again. " 


IFF?  103 

The  purser,  colouring  to  the  temples,  took  a  step 
toward  the  little  man,  his  hands  twitching,  but  at 
a  gesture  from  the  captain  paused,  controlled  him 
self  and  fell  back. 

For  a  few  moments  there  was  quiet  in  thev  cabin, 
while  those  present  digested  Iff's  conclusions  and 
acknowledged  their  logic  irrefragable.  Staff  caught 
Alison  staring  at  the  man  as  if  fascinated,  with  a 
curious,  intense  look  in  her  eyes  the  significance  of 
which  he  could  not  fathom. 

Then  the  pause  was  brought  to  an  end  by  the 
captain.  He  shifted  his  position  abruptly,  so  that 
he  towered  over  Iff,  scowling  down  upon  him. 

"That  will  do,"  he  said  ominously.  "I'm  tired 
of  this;  say  what  you  will,  you  have  n't  hoodwinked 
me,  and  you  shan't." 

"My  dear  sir!"  protested  Iff  in  amazement. 
"  Hoodwink  you  ?  Why,  I  'm  merely  trying  to  make 
you  see  — " 

"  You  've  succeeded  in  making  me  see  one  thing 
clearly:  that  you  know  more  about  this  robbery 
than  you  've  any  right  to  know." 

"  Oh,  you-all  make  me  tired,"  complained  Iff. 
"Now  you  have  just  heard  Miss  Landis  declare 
that  this  collar  of  pearls  vanished  between,  say, 
five-thirty  and  five-forty-five.  Well,  I  can  prove 


104  THE    BANDBOX 

by  the  testimony  of  three  other  passengers,  and  I 
don't  know  how  many  more,  to  say  nothing  of  your 
smoke-room  stewards,  that  I  was  playing  bridge 
from  four  until  after  six." 

"Ah,  yes,"  put  in  the  purser  sweetly,  "but  you 
yourself  have  just  demonstrated  conclusively  that 
the  robbery  could  n't  have  taken  place  at  the  hour 
mentioned." 

Iff  grinned  appreciatively.  "You're  improving," 
he  said.  "  I  guess  that  does  n't  get  you  even  with 
me  for  the  rest  of  your  life  —  what?" 

"Moreover,"  Manvers  went  on  doggedly,  "Ismay 
always  could  prove  a  copper-riveted  alibi." 

"That's  one  of  the  best  little  things  he  does," 
admitted  Iff  cheerfully. 

"You  don't  deny  you  're  Ismay?"  This  from  the 
captain,  aggressive  and  domineering. 

"I  don't  have  to,  dear  sir;  I  just  ain't  —  that 's 
the  answer." 

"You've  been  recognised,"  insisted  the  captain. 
"You  were  on  this  ship  the  time  of  the  Burden 
Hamman  robbery.  Mr.  Manvers  knows  you  by 
sight;  I,  too,  recognise  you." 

"Sorry,"  murmured  Iff  —  "so  sorry,  but  you're 
wrong.  Case  of  mistaken  identity,  I  give  you  my 
word." 


IFF?  105 

"Your  word!"  snapped  the  captain  contemp 
tuously. 

"My  word,"  retorted  Iff  in  a  crisp  voice;  "and 
more  than  that,  I  don't  ask  you  to  take  it.  I  've 
proofs  of  my  identity  which  I  think  will  satisfy 
even  you." 

"Produce  them." 

"In  my  own  good  time."  Iff  put  his  back  against 
the  wall  and  lounged  negligently,  surveying  the  circle 
of  unfriendly  faces  with  his  odd,  supercilious  eyes, 
half  veiled  by  their  hairless  lids.  "  Since  you  've 
done  me  the  honour  to  impute  to  me  guilty  knowl 
edge  of  this  —  ah  —  crime,  I  don't  mind  admitting 
that  I  was  a  passenger  on  the  Autocratic  when  Mrs. 
Burden  Hamman  lost  her  jewels;  and  it  was  n't  a 
coincidence,  either.  I  was  with  you  for  a  purpose 
—  to  look  out  for  those  jewels.  I  shared  a  room  with 
Ismay,  and  when,  after  the  robbery,  you  mistook 
me  for  him,  he  naturally  did  n't  object,  and  I  did  n't 
because  it  left  me  all  the  freer  to  prosecute  my  in 
vestigation.  In  fact,  it  was  due  to  my  efforts  that 
Ismay  found  things  getting  too  hot  for  him  over  in 
London  and  arranged  to  return  the  jewelry  to  Mrs. 
Hamman  for  an  insignificant  ransom  —  not  a  tithe 
of  their  value.  But  he  was  hard  pressed;  if  he  'd 
delayed  another  day,  I  'd  've  had  him  with  the 


106  THE    BANDBOX 

goods  on.  ...  That,"  said  Iff  pensively,  "was  when 
I  was  in  the  Pinkerton  service." 

"Ah,  it  was?"  said  the  captain  with  much  irony. 
"And  what,  pray,  do  you  claim  to  be  now?" 

"Just  a  plain,  ordinary,  everyday  sleuth  in  the 
employ  of  the  United  States  Secret  Service,  detailed 
to  work  with  the  Customs  Office  to  prevent  smug 
gling  —  the  smuggling  of  such  articles  as,  say,  the 
Cadogan  collar." 

In  the  silence  that  followed  this  astounding  dec 
laration,  the  little  man  hunched  up  his  shoulders 
until  they  seemed  more  round  than  ever,  and  again 
subjected  the  faces  of  those  surrounding  him  to  the 
stare  of  his  impertinent,  pale  eyes.  Staff,  more  de 
tached  in  attitude  than  any  of  the  others  present, 
for  his  own  amusement  followed  the  range  of  Iff'* 
gaze. 

Captain  Cobb  was  scowling  thoughtfully.  Man- 
vers  wore  a  look  of  deepest  chagrin.  Jane's  jaw  had 
fallen  and  her  eyes  seemed  perilously  protrudant. 
Alison  was  leaning  gracefully  back  in  her  chair  — 
her  pose  studied  but  charmingly  effective  —  while 
she  favoured  Iff  with  a  scrutiny  openly  incredulous 
and  disdainful. 

"  You  say  you  have  proofs  of  this  —  ah  —  asser 
tion  of  yours?"  demanded  the  captain  at  length. 


IFF?  107 

"Oh,  yes  —  surely  yes."  Iff's  tone  was  almost 
apologetic.  He  thrust  a  hand  between  his  shirt  and 
waistcoat,  fumbled  a  moment  as  if  unbuttoning 
a  pocket,  and  brought  forth  a  worn  leather  wallet 
from  which,  with  great  and  exasperating  deliberation, 
he  produced  a  folded  paper.  This  he  handed  the 
captain — his  manner,  if  possible,  more  than  ever  self- 
effacing  and  meek. 

The  paper  (it  was  parchment)  crackled  crisply 
in  the  captain's  fingers.  He  spread  it  out  and  held 
it  to  the  light  in  such  a  position  that  Staff  could 
see  it  over  his  shoulder.  He  was  unable  to  read 
its  many  closely  inscribed  lines,  but  the  heading 
"Treasury  Department,  Washington,  D.  C."  was 
boldly  conspicuous,  as  well  as  an  imposing  official 
seal  and  the  heavily  scrawled  signature  of  the 
Secretary  of  the  Treasury. 

Beneath  the  blue  cloth,  the  captain's  shoulders 
moved  impatiently.  Staff  heard  him  say  something 
indistinguishable,  but  of  an  intonation  calculated 
to  express  his  emotion. 

Iff  giggled  nervously:  "Oh,  captain!  the  ladies  — " 

Holding  himself  very  stiff  and  erect,  Captain 
Cobb  refolded  the  document  and  ceremoniously 
handed  it  back  to  the  little  man. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 


108  THE    BANDBOX 

"Don't  mention  it,"  begged  Iff.  He  replaced  the 
paper  in  his  wallet,  the  wallet  in  his  pocket.  "  I  'm 
sure  it 's  quite  an  excusable  mistake  on  your  part, 
captain  dear.  ...  As  for  you,  Mr.  Manvers,  you 
need  n't  apologise  to  me,"  he  added  maliciously: 
"just  make  your  apologies  to  Captain  Cobb." 


VII 

STOLE  AWAT! 

A4D  then  (it  seemed  most  astonishing!)  nothing 
happened.  The  net  outcome  of  all  this  fuss  and 
fluster  was  precisely  nil.  With  the  collapse  of  the 
flimsy  structure  of  prejudice  and  suspicion  in  which 
Manvers  had  sought  to  trap  Iff,  the  interest  of  all 
concerned  seemed  to  simmer  off  into  apathy.  Nobody 
did  anything  helpful,  offered  any  useful  suggestion  or 
brought  to  light  anything  illuminating.  Staff  could  n't 
understand  it,  for  the  life  of  him.  .  .  . 

There  was,  to  be  sure,  a  deal  more  talk  in  the  cap 
tain's  cabin  —  talk  hi  which  the  purser  took  little  or 
no  part.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Manvers  kept  far  in  the 
background  and  betrayed  every  indication  of  a  desire 
to  crawl  under  the  table  and  be  a  good  dog.  The  cap 
tain  had  his  say,  however,  and  in  the  end  (since  he  was 
rather  emphatic  about  it)  his  way. 

He  earnestly  desired  that  the  matter  should  be  kept 
quiet;  it  would  do  no  good,  he  argued,  to  noise  it  about 
amongst  the  passengers;  the  news  would  only  excite 

109 


110  THE    BANDBOX 

them  and  possibly  (in  some  obscure  and  undesignated 
fashion)  impede  official  investigation.  He  would,  of 
course,  spare  no  pains  to  fathom  the  mystery;  drastic 
measures  would  be  taken  to  secure  the  detection  of  the 
culprit  and  the  restitution  of  the  necklace  to  its  right 
ful  owner.  The  ship  would  be  minutely,  if  quietly, 
searched;  not  a  member  of  the  crew,  from  captain  to 
stoker,  would  be  spared,  nor  any  passenger  against 
whom  there  might  develop  the  least  cause  for  suspicion. 
Detectives  would  meet  the  ship  at  New  York  and  co 
operate  with  the  customs  officials  in  a  most  minute 
investigation  of  the  passengers'  effects.  Everything 
possible  would  be  done  —  trust  the  captain!  In  the 
meantime,  he  requested  all  present  to  regard  the  case 
as  confidential. 

Iff  concurred,  somewhat  gravely,  somewhat  diffi 
dently.  He  was  disposed  to  make  no  secret  of  the  fact 
that  his  presence  on  board  was  directly  due  to  the  miss 
ing  necklace.  He  had  been  set  to  watch  Miss  Landis, 
to  see  that  she  did  n't  smuggle  the  thing  into  the  United 
States.  He  hoped  she  wouldn't  take  offense  of  this: 
such  was  his  business;  he  had  received  his  orders  and 
had  no  choice  but  to  obey  them.  (And,  so  far  as  was 
discernible,  Miss  Landis  did  not  resent  his  espionage; 
but  she  seemed  interested  and,  Staff  fancied,  consider 
ably  diverted.)  Mr.  Iff  could  promise  Miss  Landis  that 


STOLE    AWAY  111 

he  would  leave  no  stone  unturned  in  his  private  in 
quiry;  and  his  work,  likewise,  would  be  considerably 
facilitated  if  the  affair  were  kept  quiet.  He  ventured 
to  second  the  captain's  motion. 

Miss  Landis  offered  no  objection;  Staff  and  Manvers 
volunteered  to  maintain  discretion,  Jane  was  sworn  to 
it.  Motion  seconded  and  carried :  the  meeting  adjourned 
sine  die;  the  several  parties  thereto  separated  and  went 
to  their  respective  quarters. 

Staff  accompanied  Alison  as  far  as  her  stateroom, 
but  did  n't  tarry  long  over  his  second  good-nights. 
The  young  woman  seemed  excusably  tired  and  nervous 
and  anxious  to  be  alone  —  in  no  mood  to  discuss  this 
overwhelming  event.  So  Staff  spared  her. 

In  his  own  stateroom  he  found  Mr.  Iff  half -undressed, 
sitting  on  the  transom  and  chuckling  noiselessly,  ap 
parently  in  such  a  transport  of  amusement  that  he 
did  n't  care  whether  he  ever  got  to  bed  or  not.  Upon 
the  entrance  of  his  roommate,  however,  he  dried  his 
eyes  and  made  an  effort  to  contain  himself. 

"You  seem  to  think  this  business  funny,"  suggested 
Staff,  not  at  all  approvingly. 

" I  do,"  laughed  the  little  man  —  "I  do,  indeed.  It 's 
a  grand  young  joke  —  clutch  it  from  me,  my  friend." 

"In  what  respect,  particularly,  do  you  find  it  so 
vastly  entertaining?" 


112  THE    BANDBOX 

"Oh  ...  is  n't  that  ass  Manvers  enough?" 
Further  than  this,  Mr.  Iff  declined  to  be  interviewed. 
He   clambered  briskly  into   his   berth  and  chuckled 
himself  to  sleep.    Staff  considered  his  behaviour  highly 
annoying. 

But  it  was  on  the  following  day  —  the  last  of  the 
voyage  —  that  he  found  reason  to  consider  the  affair 
astonishing  because  of  the  lack  of  interest  displayed  by 
those  personally  involved.  He  made  no  doubt  but  that 
the  captain  was  keeping  his  word  to  the  extent  of  con 
ducting  a  secret  investigation,  though  no  signs  of  any 
such  proceeding  appeared  on  the  surface  of  the  ship's 
life.  But  Alison  he  could  not  understand;  she  seemed 
to  have  cast  care  to  the  winds.  She  appeared  at  break 
fast  in  the  gayest  of  spirits,  spent  the  entire  morning 
and  most  of  the  afternoon  on  deck,  the  centre  of  an 
animated  group  shepherded  by  the  indefatigable  Mrs. 
Ilkington,  dressed  herself  radiantly  for  the  grand  final 
dinner,  flirted  with  the  assiduously  attentive  Arkroyd 
until  she  had  reduced  Staff  to  the  last  stages  of  corroded 
jealousy,  and  in  general  (as  Staff  found  a  chance  to 
tell  her)  seemed  to  be  having  the  time  of  her  life. 
"  And  why  not?  "  she  countered.  "  Spilt  milk ! " 
"Judged  by  your  conduct,"  observed  Staff,  "one 
would  be  justified  in  thinking  the  Cadogan  collar  an 
article  de  Paris." 


STOLE    AWAY!  113 

"One  might  think  any  number  of  foolish  things, 
dear  boy.  If  the  collar 's  gone,  it 's  gone,  and 
not  all  the  moping  and  glooming  imaginable  will 
bring  it  back  to  me.  If  I  do  get  it  back  —  why, 
that  '11  be  simply  good  luck;  and  I  Ve  never  found 
it  profitable  yet  to  court  Fortune  with  a  doleful 
mouth." 

"You  certainly  practise  your  theory,"  he  said.  "I 
swear  I  believe  I  'm  more  concerned  about  your  loss 
than  you  are." 

"Certainly  you  are,  you  silly  boy.  For  my  part,  I 
feel  quite  confident  the  necklace  will  be  returned." 

He  stared.    "Why?" 

She  opened  her  hands  expressively.  "  I  Ve  always 
been  lucky.  .  .  .  Besides,  if  I  never  see  it  again,  it  '11 
come  back  to  me  this  way  or  that  —  in  advertising, 
for  one." 

"  Is  n't  that  dodge  pretty  well  worked  out  with  the 
newspapers?  It  seems  to  me  that  it  has  come  to  that, 
of  late;  or  else  the  prime  donne  have  taken  to  guarding 
their  valuables  with  greater  care." 

"Oh,  that  makes  no  difference.  With  another 
woman  it  might,  but  I"  —  she  shrugged  —  "I  'm 
Alison  Landis,  if  you  please.  The  papers  won't 
neglect  me.  Besides,  Max  can  do  much  as  he  likes 
with  them." 


114  THE    BANDBOX 

"  Have  you  —  ?" 

"Of  course  —  by  wireless,  first  thing  this  morning." 

"But  you  promised  — " 

"Don't  be  tiresome,  Staff.  I  bought  this  necklace 
on  Max's  suggestion,  as  an  advertisement  —  I  meant  to 
wear  it  in  A  Single  Woman;  that  alone  would  help 
make  our  play  a  go.  Since  I  can't  get  my  advertising 
and  have  my  necklace,  too,  why,  in  goodness'  name, 
may  n't  I  get  what  I  can  out  of  it? " 

"Oh,  well  .  .  ." 

Staff  abandoned  argument  and  resting  his  forearms 
on  the  rail,  stared  sombrely  out  over  the  darkling  waters 
for  a  moment  or  two. 

This  was  at  night,  during  an  intermission  in  a  dance 
on  deck  which  had  been  arranged  by  special  permission 
of  the  weather  —  the  latter  holding  very  calm  and 
warm.  Between  halves  Staff  had  succeeded  in  dis 
entangling  Alison  from  a  circle  of  admirers  and  had 
marched  her  up  to  the  boat-deck,  where  there  was  less 
light  —  aside  from  that  furnished  by  an  obliging  moon 
—  and  more  solitude. 

Under  any  other  circumstances  Staff  would  have 
been  enchanted  with  the  situation.  They  were  quite 
alone,  if  not  unobserved;  and  there  was  magic  in  the 
night,  mystery  and  romance  in  the  moonlight,  the  inky 
shadows,  the  sense  of  swift  movement  through  space 


STOLE    AWAY  115 

illimitable.  Alison  stood  with  back  to  the  rail  so  near 
him  that  his  elbow  almost  touched  the  artificial  orchid 
that  adorned  her  corsage.  He  was  acutely  sensitive 
of  her  presence,  of  the  faint  persistent  odour  of  her 
individual  perfume,  of  the  beauty  and  grace  of  her 
strong,  free-limbed  body  in  its  impeccable  Paquin 
gown,  of  the  sheen  of  her  immaculate  arms  and  shoul 
ders  and  the  rich  warmth  of  her  face  with  its  alluring, 
shadowed  eyes  that  seemed  to  mock  him  with  light, 
fascinating  malice,  of  the  magnetism  of  her  intense, 
ineluctable  vitality  diffused  as  naturally  as  sunlight. 
But  —  the  thought  rankled  —  Arkroyd  had  won  three 
dances  to  his  two;  and  through  all  that  day  Alison 
had  seemed  determined  to  avoid  him,  to  keep  herself 
surrounded  by  an  obsequious  crowd,  impenetrable  to 
her  lover.  .  .  . 

On  the  deck  below  the  band  began  to  play  again: 
signalling  the  end  of  the  intermission.  Alison  hummed 
lightly  a  bit  of  the  melody,  her  silken  slipper  tapping 
the  deck. 

"Do  I  get  another  dance?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

She  broke  off  her  humming.  "So  sorry,"  she  said; 
"  my  card  is  quite  full  and  running  over." 

"May  I  see  it?"  She  surrendered  it  without  hesi 
tation.  He  frowned,  endeavouring  to  decipher  the 
scrawl  by  the  inadequate  moonlight. 


116  THE    BANDBOX 

"You  wanted  to  know  —  ?"  she  enquired,  with  a 
laugh  back  of  her  tone. 

"How  many  has  Arkroyd,  this  half?"  he  demanded 
bluntly. 

"  Two,  I  think,"  she  answered  coolly.     "  Why?  " 

He  stared  gravely  into  her  shadowed  face.  "Is  that 
good  advertising,  too,"  he  asked  quietly  —  "to  show 
marked  preference  to  a  man  of  Arkroyd's  calibre  and 
reputation?  " 

Alison  laughed.  "You  're  delicious  when  you  're 
jealous,  Staff,"  said  she.  "No;  it  is  n't  advertising  — 
it 's  discipline." 

"Discipline?" 

"Just  that.  I  'm  punishing  you  for  your  obstinacy 
about  the  play.  You  '11  see,  my  dear,"  she  taunted 
him:  "I  'm  going  to  have  my  own  way  or  make  your 
life  perfectly  miserable." 

Before  he  could  invent  an  adequate  retort,  the 
beautiful  Mr.  Bangs  came  tripping  across  the  deck, 
elation  in  his  manner. 

"Ah,  there  you  are,  Miss  Landis!  My  dance,  you 
know.  Been  looking  everywhere  for  you." 

"So  sorry:  I  was  just  coming  down." 

Alison  caught  up  the  demi-train  of  her  gown,  but 
paused  an  instant  longer,  staring  Staff  full  in  the  face, 
her  air  taunting  and  provocative. 


STOLE    AWAY!  117 

"  Think  it  over,  Staff,"  she  advised  in  a  cool,  metallic 
voice;  and  dropping  her  hand  on  Bangs'  arm,  moved 
languidly  away. 

Staff  did  think  it  over,  if  with  surprisingly  little  sat 
isfaction  to  himself.  It  was  n't  possible  to  ignore  the 
patent  fact  that  Alison  had  determined  to  make  him 
come  to  heel.  That  apparently  was  the  only  attitude 
possible  for  one  who  aspired  to  the  post  of  first  play- 
wright-in-waiting  and  husband-in-ordinary  to  the  first 
actress  in  the  land.  He  doubted  his  ability  to  supple 
his  back  to  the  requisite  degree.  Even  for  the  woman 
he  loved.  ...  Or  did  he?  ...  Through  the  wraith- 
like  mists  of  fading  illusions  he  caught  disturbing 
glimpses  —  dark  shapes  of  lurking  doubts. 

Disquieted,  he  found  distasteful  the  thought  of  re 
turning  to  the  lower  deck,  and  so  strolled  idly  aft  with 
a  half -formed  notion  of  looking  up  Iff. 

From  a  deck-chair  a  woman's  voice  hailed  him:  "Oh, 
Mr.  Staff.  .  .  ." 

"Miss  Searle?"  He  turned  in  to  her  side,  experi 
encing  an  odd  sensation  of  pleasure  in  the  encounter; 
which,  wisely  or  not,  he  did  n't  attempt  to  analyse  — 
at  least  further  than  the  thought  that  he  had  seen  little 
of  the  young  woman  during  the  last  two  days  and  that 
she  was  rather  likeable. 

"You  're  not  dancing?"  he  asked  in  surprise;  for  she, 


118  THE    BANDBOX 

too,  had  dressed  for  this  celebration  of  the  last  night 
of  the  voyage. 

Smiling,  she  shook  her  head  slightly.  "Neither  are 
you,  apparently.  Won't  you  sit  down?" 

He  was  n't  at  all  reluctant  to  take  the  chair  by  her 
side.  "  Why  not?  "  he  asked. 

"Oh,  I  did  dance  once  or  twice  and  then  I  began  to 
feel  a  bit  tired  and  bored  and  stole  away  to  think." 

"Long,  long  thoughts?"  he  asked  lightly. 

"Rather,"  said  she  with  becoming  gravity.  "You 
see,  it  seems  pretty  serious  to  one,  this  coming  home  to 
face  new  and  unknown  conditions  after  three  years' 
absence.  .  .  .  And  then,  after  six  days  at  sea,  out  of 
touch  with  the  world,  practically,  there  's  always  the 
feeling  of  suspense  about  what  will  happen  when  you 
get  solid  earth  under  your  feet.  You  know  what  I 
mean." 

"I  do.    You  live  in  New  York?" 

"I  mean  to  try  to,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  haven't 
any  home,  really  —  no  parents  and  only  distant  family 
connections.  In  fact,  all  I  do  possess  is  a  little  income 
and  an  immense  desire  to  work." 

"You  're  meaning  to  look  for  an  engagement, 
then?" 

"I  must" 

"Perhaps,"   he   said   thoughtfully,   "I  might  help 


STOLE    AWAY!  119 

you  a  bit;  I  know  some  of  the  managers  pretty 
well  .  .  ." 

"Thank  you.  I  meant  to  ask  you,  but  hoped  you  'd 
offer."  She  laughed  a  trifle  shyly.  "  I  presume  that 's  a 
bold,  forward  confession  to  make,  but  I  've  been  so  long 
abroad  I  don't  know  my  way  round  at  home,  anymore." 

"That 's  all  right,"  said  Staff,  liking  her  candour. 
"Where  shall  you  be?  Where  can  I  find  you?" 

"I  hardly  know  —  for  a  day  or  two  at  some  hotel, 
and  as  soon  as  possible  in  a  small  studio,  if  I  can  find 
one  to  sublet." 

"Tell  you  what  you  do,"  he  suggested:  "drop  me  a 
line  at  the  Players,  letting  me  know  when  and  where 
you  settle." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  "I  shall." 

He  was  silent  for  a  little,  musing,  his  gaze  wandering 
far  over  the  placid  reaches  of  the  night-wrapped  ocean. 
"Funny  little  world,  this,"  he  said,  rousing:  "I  mean, 
the  ship.  Here  we  are  today,  some  several  hundreds 
of  us,  all  knit  together  by  an  intricate  network  of  in 
terests,  aims,  ambitions  and  affections  that  seem  as 
strong  and  inescapable  as  the  warp  and  woof  of  Life 
itself;  and  yet  tomorrow  —  we  land,  we  separate  on  our 
various  ways,  and  the  network  vanishes  like  a  dew- 
gemmed  spider's  web  before  the  sun." 

"Only  the  dew  vanishes,"  she  reminded  him;  "the 


120  THE     BANDBOX 

web  remains,  if  almost  invisible.  .  .  .  Still,  I  know 
what  you  mean.  .  .  .  Wasn't  that  Miss  Landis  you 
were  with,  just  now?" 

"Yes." 

"Tell  me"  —  she  stirred,  half  turning  to  him  — 
"has  anything  new  transpired  —  about  the  collar?" 

"You  know  about  that!"  he  exclaimed  in  surprise. 

"Of  course;  the  ship  has  been  humming  with  it  ever 
since  dinner." 

"But  how  —  ?" 

"Mrs.  Ilkington  told  me,  of  course.  I  presume  Miss 
Landis  told  her." 

"Doubtless,"  he  agreed  reluctantly,  little  relishing 
the  thought.  Still,  it  seemed  quite  plausible,  Alison's 
views  on  advertising  values  considered.  "No,"  he 
added  presently;  "I  Ve  heard  nothing  new." 

"Then  the  Secret  Service  man  has  n't  accomplished 
anything?" 

"So  you  know  about  him,  too?  .  .  .  Can't  say  — 
have  n't  seen  him  since  morning.  Presumably  he  's 
somewhere  about,  sniffing  for  clues." 

"Miss  Landis,"  said  the  girl  in  a  hesitant  manner  — 
"does  n't  seem  to  worry  very  much  .  .  .  ?" 

"No,"  admitted  Staff. 

"Either  that,  or  she's  as  wonderful  an  actress  off 
the  boards  as  on." 


STOLE    AWAY! 

"They  mostly  are,"  Staff  observed.  He  was  hardly 
ready  to  criticise  his  beloved  to  a  comparative  stranger. 
The  subject  languished  and  died  of  inanition. 

"By  the  way  —  did  you  ever  solve  the  mystery  of 
your  bandbox?" 

Staff  started.    "What  made  you  think  of  that?" 

"Oh  — I  don't  know." 

"No  —  have  n't  had  any  chance.  I  rather  expect  to 
find  out  something  by  the  time  I  get  home,  though. 
It  is  n't  likely  that  so  beautiful  a  hat  will  be  permitted 
to  J>  ish  unseen."  His  interest  quickened.  "Won't  you 
telt  me,  please?"  he  begged,  bending  forward. 

I>ut  the  girl  laughed  softly  and  shook  her  head. 

'"PVise!" 
Oh,  I  could  n't.    I  've  no  right  to  spoil  a  good  joke." 

"  Th?  i  you  think  it 's  a  joke?"  he  enquired  gloomily. 

"WV- else  could  it  be?" 
:      r  wish  I  knew!" 

Jamation  was  so  fervent  that  Miss  Searle 
«£,  ain. 

i;  sounded  in  the  pause  that  followed  and 

;  up  suddenly  with  a  little  cry  of  mock 

•;..   • 

» •'•&.   .'*.  o'clock!     Good  Heavens,  I  mustn't  loaf 
another  minute!    I  've  all  my  packing  to  do." 

She  was  up  and  standing  before  Staff  could  offer  to 


122  THE    BANDBOX 

assist  her.  But  she  paused  long  enough  to  slip  a  hand 
into  his. 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Staff;  and  thank  you  for  vol 
unteering  to  help  me." 

"I  shan't  forget,"  he  promised.    "Good  night." 

He  remained  momentarily  where  she  left  him, 
following  with  his  gaze  her  tall  and  slender  yet  well- 
proportioned  figure  as  it  moved  along  the  moonlit 
deck,  swaying  gracefully  to  the  long,  smooth,  almost 
imperceptible  motion  of  the  ship. 

He  wore  just  then  a  curious  expression:  his  eyes 
wondering,  his  brows  puckered,  his  thin  lips  shaping 
into  their  queer,  twisted  smile.  .  .  .  Funny  (he  found 
it)  that  a  fellow  could  feel  so  comfortable  and  content 
in  the  company  of  a  woman  he  did  n't  care  a  rap  about, 
so  ill  at  ease  and  out  of  sorts  when  with  the  mistress  of 
his  dreams !  It  did  n't,  somehow,  seem  just  right.  .  .  . 

With  a  dubious  grimace,  he  went  aft.  Iff,  however, 
was  n't  in  the  smoking-room.  Neither  was  he  any 
where  else  that  Staff  could  discover  in  his  somewhat 
aimless  wanderings.  And  he  found  his  stateroom  un 
occupied  when  at  length  he  decided  to  turn  in. 

"Sleuthing,"  was  the  word  with  which  he  accounted 
for  the  little  man's  invisibility,  as  he  dropped  off  to  sleep. 

If  he  were  right,  Iff  was  early  on  the.  job.  When  the 
bath-steward's  knock  brought  Staff  out  of  his  berth 


STOLE    AWAY!  123 

the  next  morning,  his  companion  of  the  voyage  was 
already  up  and  about;  his  empty  berth  showed  that  it 
had  been  slept  in,  but  its  occupant  had  disappeared 
with  his  clothing;  and  even  his  luggage  (he  travelled 
light,  with  a  kit-bag  and  a  suit-case  for  all  impedimenta) 
had  been  packed  and  strapped,  ready  to  go  ashore. 

"Conscientious,"  commented  the  playwright  pri 
vately.  "Wonder  if  he's  really  on  the  track  of 
anything?" 

Idle  speculation,  however,  was  suddenly  drowned  in 
delight  when,  his  sleep-numb  faculties  clearing,  he 
realised  that  the  Autocratic  was  resting  without  way, 
and  a  glance  out  of  the  stateroom  port  showed  him  the 
steep  green  slopes  of  Fort  Tompkins  glistening  in  new 
sunlight. 

Home!  He  choked  back  a  yell  of  joy,  and  raced 
to  his  bath.  Within  twenty  minutes,  bathed,  clothed 
and  sane,  he  was  on  deck. 

By  now,  having  taken  on  the  health  officers,  the  great 
vessel  was  in  motion  again,  standing  majestically  up 
through  the  Narrows.  To  starboard,  Bay  Ridge  basked 
in  golden  light.  Forward,  over  the  starboard  bow, 
beyond  leagues  of  stained  water  quick  with  the  life  of 
two-score  types  of  harbour  and  seagoing  craft,  New 
York  reared  its  ragged  battlements  against  a  sky  whose 
blue  had  been  faded  pale  by  summer  heat.  Soft  airs 


124  THE    BANDBOX 

and  warm  breathed  down  the  Bay,  bearing  to  his  nos 
trils  that  well-kenned,  unforgettable  odour,  like  none 
other  on  earth,  of  the  sun-scorched  city. 

Staff  filled  his  lungs  and  was  glad.  It  is  good  to  be 
an  American  able  to  go  roaming  for  to  admire  and  for 
to  see;  but  it  is  best  of  all  to  be  an  American  coming 
home. 

Joy  in  his  heart,  Staff  dodged  below,  made  his  cus 
toms  declaration,  bolted  his  breakfast  (with  the 
greater  expedition  since  he  had  for  company  only 
Mrs.  Thataker,  a  plump,  pale  envelope  for  a  soul 
of  pink  pining  for  sympathy)  and  hurried  back  to  the 
deck. 

Governor's  Island  lay  abeam.  Beyond  it  the  East 
River  was  opening  up  —  spanned  by  its  gossamer 
webs  of  steel.  Ahead,  and  near  at  hand,  New  York 
bulked  magnificently,  purple  canyons  yawning  between 
its  pastel-tinted  cliffs  of  steel  and  glass  and  stone:  the 
heat  haze,  dimming  all,  lent  soft  enchantment.  .  .  . 

Ranks  of  staring  passengers  hid  the  rail,  each  a 
bundle  of  unsuspected  hopes  and  fears,  longings  and 
apprehensions,  keen  for  the  hour  of  landing  that  would 
bring  confirmation,  denial,  disappointment,  fulfillment. 

Amidships  Staff  descried  Mrs.  Ilkington's  head  and 
shoulders  next  to  Miss  Searle's  profile.  Arkroyd  was 
with  them  and  Bangs.  Alison  he  did  not  see,  nor 


STOLE    AWAY!  125 

Iff.  As  he  hesitated  whether  or  not  to  approach  them, 
a  steward  touched  his  arm  apologetically. 

"Beg  pardon  —  Mr.  Staff?  " 

"Yes  .    .    .  ?" 

"Mr.  Manvers — the  purser,  sir — awsked  me  to 
request  you  to  be  so  kind  as  to  step  down  to  Miss 
Landis'  stiteroom." 

"Certainly." 

The  door  to  Alison's  sitting-room  was  ajar.  He 
knocked  and  heard  her  voice  bid  him  enter.  As  he 
complied  it  was  the  purser  who  shut  the  door  tight 
behind  him. 

He  found  himself  in  the  presence  of  Alison,  Jane, 
Manvers  and  three  men  whom  he  did  not  know. 
Alison  alone  was  seated,  leaning  back  in  an  armchair, 
her  expression  of  bored  annoyance  illustrated  by  the 
quick,  steady  tapping  of  the  toe  of  her  polished  boot. 
She  met  his  questioning  look  with  a  ready  if  artificial 
and  meaningless  smile. 

"Oh,  you  weren't  far  away,  were  you,  Staff?"  she 
said  lightly.  "These  gentlemen  want  to  ask  you  some 
questions  about  that  wretched  necklace.  I  wish  to 
goodness  I  'd  never  bought  the  thing!" 

Her  expression  had  changed  to  petulance.  Ceasing 
to  speak,  she  resumed  the  nervous  drumming  of  her 
foot  upon  the  carpet. 


126  THE    BANDBOX 

Manvers  took  the  initiative:  "Mr.  Staff,  this  is  Mr. 
Siddons  of  the  customs  service;  this  is  Mr.  Arnold  of  the 
JJnited  States  Secret  Service;  and  this,  Mr.  Cramp  of 
Pinkerton's.  They  came  aboard  at  Quarantine." 

Staff  nodded  to  each  man  in  turn,  and  reviewed 
their  faces,  finding  them  one  and  all  more  or  less  com 
monplace  and  uninteresting. 

"How-d-'you-do?"  he  said  civilly;  and  to  Manvers: 
"Well  .  .  .  ?" 

"We  were  wondering  if  you  'd  seen  anything  of  Mr. 
Iff  this  morning?" 

"No  —  nothing.  He  came  to  bed  after  I  'd  gone  to 
sleep  last  night,  and  was  up  and  out  before  I  woke. 
Why?" 

"He  —  "  the  purser  began;  but  the  man  he  had 
called  Mr.  Arnold  interrupted. 

"He  claimed  to  be  a  Secret  Service  man,  did  n't  he?" 

"He  did,"  returned  Staff.  "Captain  Cobb  saw  his 
credentials,  I  believe." 

"But  that  didn't  satisfy  him,"  Manvers  put  in 
eagerly.  "I  managed  to  make  him  understand  that 
credentials  could  be  forged,  so  he  wirelessed  for  infor 
mation.  And,"  the  purser  added  triumphantly  after 
a  distinct  dramatic  pause,  "he  got  it." 

"You  mean  Iff  is  n't  what  he  claimed  —  ?"  exclaimed 
Staff. 


STOLE    AWAY!  127 

Arnold  nodded  brusquely.  "There  's  no  such  person 
in  the  service,"  he  affirmed. 

"Then  he  is  Ismay!" 

The  Pinkerton  man  answered  him:  "If  he  is  and  I 
lay  eyes  on  him,  I  can  tell  in  two  shakes." 

"By  George!"  cried  Staff  in  admiration  —  "the 
clever  little  scamp!" 

"You  may  well  say  so,"  said  Manvers  bitterly. 
"If  you'd  listened  to  me  —  if  the  captain  had  — 
this  would  n't  have  happened." 

"What  — the  theft?" 

"Yes,  that  primarily;  but  now,  you  know  —  because 
he  was  given  so  much  rope  —  he  's  vanished." 

"What!" 

"Vanished  —  disappeared  —  gone!"  said  the  purser, 
waving  his  hands  graphically. 

"But  he  can't  have  left  the  ship!' 

"Doesn't  seem  so,  does  it?"  said  the  Pinkerton 
man  morosely.  "All  the  same,  we've  made  a  pretty 
thorough  search,  and  he  can't  be  found." 

"You  see,"  resumed  Manvers,  "when  the  captain 
got  word  yesterday  afternoon  that  Iff  or  Ismay  was  n't 
what  he  pretended  to  be,  he  simply  wirelessed  back 
for  a  detective,  and  didn't  arrest  Iff,  because  —  he 
said  —  he  couldn't  get  away.  I  told  him  he  was 
wrong  —  and  he  was!" 


VIII 

THE  WRONG  BOX 

WHEN  the  janitor  and  the  taxicab  operator 
between  them  had  worried  all  his  luggage  up 
stairs,  Staff  paid  and  tipped  them  and  thankfully  saw 
the  hall-door  close  on  their  backs.  He  was  tired,  over 
heated  and  glad  to  be  alone. 

Shaking  off  his  coat,  he  made  a  round  of  his  rooms, 
opening  windows.  Those  in  the  front  of  the  apart 
ment  looked  out  from  the  second-story  elevation  upon 
East  Thirtieth  Street,  between  Fourth  and  Lexing 
ton  Avenues.  Those  in  the  rear  (he  discovered  to  his 
consummate  disgust)  commanded  an  excellent  view  of 
a  very  deep  hole  in  the  ground  swarming  with  Italian 
labourers  and  dotted  with  steam  drills,  mounds  of 
broken  rock  and  carters  with  their  teams;  also  a 
section  of  East  Twenty-ninth  Street  was  visible 
through  the  space  that  had  been  occupied  no  longer 
ago  than  last  spring  by  a  dignified  row  of  brownstone 
houses  with  well-tended  backyards. 

Staff  cursed  soulfully  the  noise  and  dirt  caused  by 
the  work  of  excavation,  shut  the  back  windows  to 

128 


THE    WRONG    BOX  129 

keep  out  the  dust  and  returned  to  the  front  room 
—  his  study,  library  and  reception-room  in  one. 
With  the  addition  of  the  bath  off  the  bedroom 
in  the  rear,  and  a  large  hall-closet  opening  from 
the  study,  these  two  rooms  comprised  his  home.  The 
hall  was  public,  giving  access  to  two  upper  floors 
which,  like  that  beneath  him,  were  given  up  to  bachelor 
apartments.  The  house  was  in  reality  an  old-fashioned 
residence,  remodelled  and  let  out  by  the  floor  to  young 
men  mainly  of  Staff's  ilk:  there  was  an  artist  on  the 
upper  story,  a  writer  of  ephemeral  fiction  on  the  third, 
an  architect  on  the  first.  The  janitor  infested  the  base 
ment,  chiefly  when  bored  by  the  monotony  of  holding 
up  an  imitation  mahogany  bar  over  on  Third  Avenue. 
His  wife  cooked  abominably  and  served  the  results 
under  the  name  of  breakfast  to  the  tenants,  who  foraged 
where  they  would  for  their  other  meals.  Otherwise  she 
was  chiefly  distinguished  by  a  mad,  exasperating  pas 
sion  for  keeping  the  rooms  immaculately  clean  and  in 
order.  Staff  noted  approvingly  that,  although  Mrs. 
Shultz  had  not  been  warned  of  his  return,  there  was  no 
trace  of  dust  in  the  rooms,  not  a  single  stick  of  furniture 
nor  a  book  out  of  place. 

There  was  n't  really  any  reason  why  he  should  stick 
in  such  un-modern  and  inconveniently  situated  lodg 
ings —  that  is,  aside  from  his  ingrained  inclination  to 


130  THE    BANDBOX 

make  as  little  trouble  for  himself  as  possible.  To  hunt  a 
new  place  to  live  would  be  quite  as  much  of  a  nuisance 
as  to  moye  to  it,  when  found.  And  he  was  comfortable 
enough  where  he  was.  He  had  taken  the  place  some 
eight  years  previously,  at  a  time  when  it  was  rather 
beyond  his  means;  today  when  he  could  well  afford 
to  live  where  he  would  in  New  York,  he  found  that  his 
rooms  had  become  a  habit  with  him.  He  had  no  inten 
tion  whatever  of  leaving  them  until  the  house  should  be 
dismantled  to  make  way  for  some  more  modern  struc 
ture —  like  that  going  up  in  the  rear  —  or  until  he 
married. 

He  poked  round,  renewing  acquaintance  with  old, 
familiar  things,  unearthed  an  ancient  pipe  which  had 
lain  in  one  of  his  desk-drawers  like  a  buried  bone, 
fondled  it  lovingly,  filled  and  lighted  it,  and  felt  all 
the  tune  more  and  more  content  and  at  ease. 

Then  Shultz  knocked  at  the  door  and  delivered  to  him 
a  bundle  of  afternoon  papers  for  which  he  had  filed  a 
requisition  immediately  on  his  arrival. 

He  sat  down,  enjoying  his  pipe  to  the  utmost  and 
wondering  how  under  the  sun  he  had  managed  to  worry 
along  without  it  all  the  time  he  had  been  away,  and 
began  to  read  what  the  reporters  had  to  say  about  the 
arrival  of  the  Autocratic  and  the  case  of  the  Cadogan 
collar. 


THE    WRONG    BOX  131 

In  the  main  they  afforded  him  little  but  amusement; 
the  stories  were  mostly  a  hash  of  misinformation 
strongly  flavoured  with  haphazard  guesswork.  The 
salient  facts  of  the  almost  simultaneous  disappearance 
of  the  necklace  and  Mr.  Iff  stood  up  out  of  the  welter 
of  surmise  like  mountain  peaks  above  cloud-rack. 
There  were  no  other  facts.  And  both  these  remained 
inexplicable.  No  trace  had  been  found  of  Mr.  Iff; 
his  luggage  remained  upon  the  pier,  unclaimed.  With 
him  the  Cadogan  collar  had  apparently  vanished  as 
mysteriously:  thus  the  consensus.  The  representative 
of  the  Secret  Service  bent  on  exposing  an  impostor,  the 
Pinkerton  men  employed  by  the  steamship  company, 
and  a  gratuitous  corps  of  city  detectives  were  verbally 
depicted  as  so  many  determined  bloodhounds  nosing 
as  many  different  scents  —  otherwise  known  as  clues. 

Jules  Max,  moreover,  after  a  conference  with  his 
star,  had  published  an  offer  of  a  reward  of  $10,000  for 
the  return  of  the  necklace  or  for  information  leading 
to  its  recovery  whether  or  not  involving  the  appre 
hension  of  the  thief. 

Several  of  the  papers  "ran"  unusually  long  stories 
descriptive  of  the  scenes  on  the  pier.  Staff  chuckled 
over  them.  The  necklace  had,  in  fact,  made  no  end 
of  trouble  for  several  hundred  putatively  innocent  and 
guileless  passengers.  The  customs  examination  had 


132  THE    BANDBOX 

been  thorough  beyond  parallel.  Not  even  the  steerage 
and  second-cabin  passengers  had  escaped;  everybody's 
belongings  had  been  combed  fine  by  a  corps  of  inspectors 
whose  dutiful  curiosity  had  been  abnormally  stimulated 
by  the  prospect  of  a  ten-thousand-dollar  reward.-  Not 
a  few  passengers  had  been  obliged  to  submit  to  the 
indignity  of  personal  search  —  Staff  and  Alison  in 
their  number;  the  latter  for  no  reason  that  Staff  could 
imagine;  the  former  presumably  because  he  had  roomed 
with  the  elusive  Mr.  Iff  on  the  way  over.  He  had  also 
been  mulcted  a  neat  little  sum  as  duty  on  that  miserable 
hat,  which  he  had  been  obliged  to  declare  as  a  present 
for  a  friend. 

In  memory  of  this  he  now  rose,  marched  over 
to  the  bandbox,  innocently  reposing  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  and  dispassionately  lifted  it  the  kick 
he  had  been  promising  it  ever  since  the  first  day  of 
their  acquaintance. 

It  sailed  up  prettily,  banged  the  wall  with  a  hollow 
noise  and  dropped  to  the  floor  with  a  grievous  dent  in 
one  side. 

There  —  out  of  his  way  —  Staff  left  it.  Immeas 
urably  mollified,  he  proceeded  to  unpack  and  put  his 
house  in  order.  By  the  time  this  was  done  to  his 
satisfaction  and  Shultz  had  dragged  the  empty  trunks 
into  the  hall,  to  be  carried  downstairs  and  stored  in 


THE    WRONG    BOX  133 

the  cellar,  it  was  evening  and  time  to  dress.  So  Staff 
made  himself  clean  with  much  water  and  beautiful  with 
cold  steel  and  resplendent  with  evening  clothes,  and 
tucked  the  manuscript  of  A  Single  Woman  into  the 
pocket  of  a  light  topcoat  and  sallied  forth  to  dine  with 
Jules  Max  and  Alison  Landis. 

It  was  late,  something  after  midnight,  when  he 
returned,  driving  up  to  his  house  in  a  taxicab  and  a 
decidedly  disgruntled  frame  of  mind.  Alison  had  been 
especially  trying  with  regard  to  the  play;  and  Max, 
while  privately  letting  the  author  see  that  he  thought 
him  in  the  right  in  refusing  to  make  changes  until 
rehearsals  had  demonstrated  their  advisability,  and 
in  spite  of  his  voluble  appreciation  of  the  play's 
merits,  had  given  Alison  the  support  she  demanded. 
The  inference  was  plain:  the  star  was  to  be  humoured 
even  at  the  cost  of  a  crippled  play.  Between  love 
for  the  woman  and  respect  for  his  work,  desire  to 
please  her  and  determination  not  to  misrepresent  him 
self  to  the  public,  Staff,  torn  this  way  and  that,  felt 
that  he  had  at  length  learned  the  true  meaning  of 
"the  horns  of  dilemma."  But  this  reflection  availed 
nothing  to  soothe  his  temper. 

When  he  got  out  of  the  cab  a  short  but  sharp  argu 
ment  ensued  with  the  operator;  it  seemed  that  "the 
clock"  was  out  of  order  and  not  registering  —  had 


134  THE    BANDBOX 

struck  in  conformance  to  the  time-honoured  custom  of 
the  midnight  taximeter  union.  But  the  driver's  habitual 
demand  for  two  and  one-half  times  the  proper  fare  by 
distance  proved  in  this  instance  quite  fruitless.  Staff 
calmly  counted  out  the  right  amount,  put  it  in  the 
man's  hand,  listened  with  critical  appreciation  to  the 
resultant  flow  of  profanity  until  it  verged  upon  person 
ality,  then  deliberately  dragged  the  man  by  the  scruff 
of  his  neck,  choking  and  cursing,  from  his  seat  to  the 
sidewalk. 

"Now,  listen,"  said  he  hi  a  level  tone:  "you've 
got  either  to  put  up  or  shut  up.  I  Ve  been  sort  of 
aching  to  beat  the  tar  out  of  one  of  you  highwaymen 
for  some  tune,  and  I  feel  just  ripe  for  it  tonight.  You 
either  put  up  your  fists  or  crawl  —  another  yap  out 
of  you  and  I  won't  wait  for  you  to  do  either." 

The  man  bristled  and  then,  analysing  the  gleam  in 
Staff's  eyes,  crawled:  that  is  to  say,  he  climbed 
back  into  his  seat  and  swung  the  machine  to  the 
far  side  of  the  street  before  again  resorting  to 
vituperation. 

To  this  Staff  paid  no  more  attention.  He  was  open 
ing  the  front  door.  The  passage  had  comforted  him 
considerably,  but  he  was  presently  to  regret  it.  But 
for  that  delay  he  might  have  been  spared  a  deal  of 
trouble. 


THE    WRONG    BOX  135 

As  he  let  himself  into  the  house,  a  man  in  evening 
dress  came  running  down  the  stairs,  brushed  past 
rudely  and  without  apology,  and  slammed  the  door 
behind  him.  Staff  wondered  and  frowned  slightly. 
Presumably  the  fellow  had  been  calling  on  one  of  the 
tenants  of  the  upper  floors.  There  had  been  something 
familiar  in  his  manner  —  something  reminiscent,  but 
too  indefinite  for  recognition.  And  certainly  he  'd  been 
in  the  devil  of  a  hurry! 

In  the  meantime  he  had  mounted  the  first  flight  of 
stairs  and  turned  through  the  hall  to  his  study  door. 
To  his  surprise  it  was  n't  locked.  He  seemed  dis 
tinctly  to  remember  locking  it  when  he  had  left  for 
dinner.  Still,  memory  does  play  us  odd  tricks. 

He  pushed  the  door  open  and  entered  the  room.  At 
the  same  moment  he  heard  the  trilling  of  the  telephone 
bell.  The  instrument  stood  upon  his  desk  between  the 
two  front  windows.  Without  pausing  to  switch  on  one 
of  the  lights  in  the  combination  gas-  and  electro 
lier  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  he  groped  his  way 
through  blinding  darkness  to  the  desk  and,  finding  the 
telephone  instrument  with  the  certainty  of  old 
acquaintance,  lifted  the  receiver  to  his  ear. 

"Hello?  "he  called. 

A  thin  and  business-like  voice  detailed  his  number. 

"Yes,"  he  said.    "What  is  it?" 


136  THE    BANDBOX 

"Just  a  moment,"  came  out  of  the  night.  "HoLi 
the  wire." 

There  was  a  pause  in  which  it  occurred  to  him  that 
a  little  light  would  be  a  grateful  thing.  He  groped  for 
his  desklamp,  found  it  and  scorched  his  fingers  slightly 
on  its  metal  reflector.  He  had  switched  on  the  light 
and  said  "Damn!"  mechanically  before  he  reflected 
that  the  said  metal  reflector  had  no  right  to  be  hot 
unless  the  light  had  been  burning  very  recently. 

As  this  thought  penetrated  his  consciousness,  the 
telephone  waxed  eloquent. 

"  Hello ! "  called  a  voice.    "  Is  that  you,  Staff?  " 

"  Why ! "  he  exclaimed  in  surprise  —  "  yes,  Alison ! " 

"Are  you  alone?" 

"Yes,"  he  said.    "What  is  it?" 

"I  just  wanted  to  know,"  returned  the  p  i  at 
the  other  end  of  the  wire.  "  I  'm  coming  ,  ^e 
you." 

"What  — now?" 

"Of  course,  silly." 

"But  why — this  time  of  night— it  does  n' 

"Oh,  I  Ve  got  something  most  importan  $   lo 

you  —  very  important  indeed.    It  won't  ke»  3  be 

there  in  five  minutes.    Listen  for  the  taxi  - 
like  a  dear  boy?  —  and  come  down  and  open  tAe  door 
for  me.    Good-bye." 


THE    WRONG    BOX  137 

"Good-bye,"  he  returned  automatically,  and  hung  up 
the  receiver. 

What  on  earth  could  she  be  wanting,  that  could  have 
turned  up  so  unexpectedly  in  the  half-hour  since  he  had 
left  her  and  that  would  n't  keep  till  morning? 

Abruptly  he  became  aware  that  the  air  in  the  room 
was  stiflingly  close.  And  he  had  left  the  windows  open 
when  he  went  out;  he  knew  that  he  was  n't  mistaken 
about  that;  and  now  they  were  closed,  the  shades 
drawn  tight! 

This  considered  in  connection  with  the  open  door 
that  had  been  locked,  and  the  heated  desk-lamp 
that  should  have  been  cold,  he  could  n't  avoid  the 
conclusion  that  somebody  had  been  in  his  rooms, 
an  unlawful  trespasser,  just  a  few  minutes  before  he 
came  in  —  possibly  the  very  man  who  had  rushed  past 
him  in  such  violent  haste  at  the  front  door. 

He  jumped  up  and  turned  on  all  the  lights  in  the  room. 
A  first,  hasty  glance  about  showed  him  nothing  as  it 
had  not  been  when  he  had  left  six  hours  or  so  ago  — 
aside  from  the  front  windows,  of  course.  Mechanically, 
thinking  hard  and  fast,  he  went  to  these  latter  and 
opened  them  wide. 

The  possibility  that  the  intruder  might  still  be  in 
the  rooms  —  in  his  bedroom,  for  instance  —  popped 
into  his  head,  and  he  went  hurriedly  to  investigate. 


138  THE    BANDBOX 

But  there  wasn't  anybody  in  the  back-room  or  the 
bath-room. 

Perplexed,  he  examined  the  rear  windows.  They 
were  closed  and  locked,  as  when  he  had  left.  Opening 
them,  he  peered  out  and  down  the  fire-escape;  he  had 
always  had  a  notion  that  anybody  foolish  enough  to 
want  to  burgle  his  rooms  would  find  it  easy  to  effect  an 
entrance  via  the  fire-escape,  whose  bottom  rung  was 
only  eight  feet  or  so  above  the  level  of  the  backyard. 
And  now,  since  the  Twenty-ninth  Street  houses  had 
been  torn  down,  lending  access  easy  via  the  excavation, 
such  an  attempt  would  be  doubly  easy. 

But  he  had  every  evidence  that  his  rooms  hadn't 
been  broken  into  by  any  such  route;  although  —  of 
course !  —  an  astute  burglar  might  have  thought  to 
cover  up  his  tracks  by  relocking  the  windows  after 
he  had  entered.  On  the  other  hand,  the  really  wise 
marauder  would  have  almost  certainly  left  them  open 
to  provide  a  way  of  escape  in  emergency. 

BafHed  and  wondering,  Staff  returned  to  his  study. 
An  examination  of  the  hall-closet  yielded  nothing  illu 
minating.  Everything  was  undisturbed,  and  there 
was  n't  room  enough  therein  for  anybody  to  hide. 

lie  shut  the  closet  door  and  reviewed  the  study  more 
carefully.  Not  a  thing  out  of  place;  even  that  wretched 
bandbox  lay  where  he  had  kicked  it,  with  a  helpless, 


THE    WRONG    BOX  139 

abused  look,  the  dented  side  turned  pitifully  to  the 
light  —  much  like  a  street  beggar  exposing  a  maimed 
limb  to  excite  public  sympathy. 

He  struggled  to  think:  what  did  he  possess  worth 
stealing?  Nothing  of  any  great  value:  a  modest  col 
lection  of  masculine  jewelry  —  stick-pins  and  the  like; 
a  quantity  of  clothing;  a  few  fairly  good  pictures;  a 
few  rare  books.  But  the  merest  cursory  examination 
showed  that  these  were  intact,  one  and  all.  What  cash 
he  had  was  all  upon  his  person.  His  desk,  where  the 
lamp  had  been  lighted,  held  nothing  valuable  to  any 
body  other  than  himself:  manuscripts,  account  books, 
some  personal  papers  strictly  non-negotiable.  And 
these  too  proved  undisturbed. 

Swinging  round  from  the  desk,  he  rested  his  elbows 
on  his  knees,  clasped  his  hands,  and  lapsed  into  the 
most  profound  of  meditations;  through  which  he 
arrived  at  the  most  amazing  discovery  of  all. 

Very  gradually  his  eyes,  at  first  seeing  not  what  they 
saw,  focussed  upon  an  object  on  the  floor.  Quite  ex 
cusably  he  was  reluctant  to  believe  their  evidence. 
Eventually,  however,  he  bent  forward  and  picked  up 
the  thing. 

It  lay  in  his  hand,  eloquently  absurd — in  his  study! 
—  a  bow  of  violet-coloured  velvet  ribbon,  cunningly 
knotted,  complete  in  itself.  From  its  reverse,  a  few 


140  THE    BANDBOX 

broken  threads  of  silk  hung,  suggesting  that  it  had 
been  originally  sewn  upon  a  gown,  or  some  other 
article  of  dress,  from  which  it  had  been  violently  torn 
away. 

The  thing  was  so  impossible  —  preposterous !  —  that 
he  sat  as  if  stunned,  eyes  a-stare,  jaw  dropping,  wits 
bemused;  until  abruptly  roused  by  the  sharp  barking 
of  a  taxicab  horn  as  it  swung  round  the  corner  of 
Fourth  Avenue  and  the  subsequent  grumble  of  its 
motor  in  the  street  below. 

Thrusting  the  velvet  knot  into  his  pocket  he  ran 
down  and  opened  the  front  door  just  as  Alison  gained 
the  top  of  the  brownstone  steps. 

He  noticed  that  her  taxicab  was  waiting. 

Still  in  her  shimmering,  silken,  summery  dinner-gown 
of  the  earlier  evening,  a  light  chiffon  wrap  draped  round 
her  shoulders,  she  entered  the  vestibule,  paused  and 
stood  smiling  mischievously  into  his  grave,  enquiring 
eyes. 

"Surprised  you  —  eh,  Staff?"  she  laughed. 

"Rather,"  said  he,  bending  over  her  hand  and  won 
dering  at  her  high  spirit  of  gaiety  so  sharply  in  con 
trast  with  her  determined  and  domineering  humour  of 
a  few  hours  since.  "Why?"  he  asked,  shutting  the 
outside  door. 

"Just  wanted  to  see  you  alone  for  a  few  moments; 


THE    WRONG    BOX  141 

I  Ve  something  to  say  to  you  —  something  very  im 
portant  and  surprising.  .  .  .  But  not  down  here." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  contritely.  He  mo 
tioned  toward  the  stairs:  "There's  no  elevator,  but 
it 's  only  one  flight  up  .  .  ." 

"No  elevator!  Heavens!"  she  cried  in  mock  horror. 
"And  this  is  how  the  other  half  lives!" 

She  caught  up  her  skirts  and  ran  up  the  stairs  with 
footsteps  so  light  that  he  could  hear  nothing  but  the 
soft,  continuous  murmuring  of  her  silken  gown. 

"Genius,"  he  said,  ironic,  as  he  followed  her  — 
"Genius  frequently  needs  a  lift  but  is  more  often 
to  be  found  in  an  apartment  without  one.  Permit 
me" —  he  flung  wide  the  door  to  his  study  —  "to 
introduce  you  to  the  garret." 

"So  this  is  where  you  starve  and  write!" 

Alison  paused  near  the  centre  of  the  room,  shrugging 
her  wrap  from  her  shoulders  and  dropping  it  carelessly 
on  the  table.  He  saw  her  shoot  swift  glances  round  her 
with  bright,  prying  eyes. 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  'm  not  enough  of  a  genius  to  starve," 
he  said;  "but  anyway,  here  's  where  I  write." 

"How  interesting!"  she  drawled  in  a  tone  that  con 
veyed  to  him  the  impression  she  found  it  anything  but 
that.  And  then,  a  trace  sharply :  "  Please  shut  the  door." 

He  lifted  his  brows  hi  surprise,  said  "Oh?"  and  turn- 


142  THE    BANDBOX 

ing  back  did  as  bid.  At  the  same  time  Alison  disposed 
herself  negligently  in  a  capacious  wing-chair. 

"Yes,"  she  took  up  his  monosyllable;  "it 's  quite  as 
important  as  all  that.  I  don't  wish  to  be  overheard. 
Besides,"  she  added  with  nonchalant  irrelevance,  "I 
do  want  a  cigarette." 

Silently  Staff  found  his  metal  cigarette-safe  and 
offered  it,  put  a  match  to  the  paper  roll  held  so 
daintily  between  his  lady's  lips,  and  then  helped 
himself. 

Through  a  thin  veil  of  smoke  she  looked  up  into  hfo 
serious  face  and  smiled  bewitchingly. 

"Are  you  thrilled,  my  dear?"  she  asked  lightly. 

"Thrilled?"  he  questioned.    "How?" 

She  lifted  her  white,  gleaming  shoulders  with  an  air 
of  half-tolerant  impatience.  "To  have  a  beautiful 
woman  alone  with  you  in  your  rooms,  at  this  hour  o' 
night  .  .  .  Don't  you  find  it  romantic,  dear  boy?  Or 
are  n't  you  in  a  romantic  mood  tonight?  Or  perhaps 
I  'm  not  sufficiently  beautiful  .  .  .  ? "  She  ended  with 
a  charming  little  petulant  moue. 

"You  know  perfectly  well  you  're  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  women  in  the  world,"  he  began  gravely;  but 
she  caught  him  up. 

"One  of  —  ?" 

"To  me,  of  course  —  you  know  the  rest:  the  usual 


THE    WRONG    BOX  143 

thing,"  he  said.  "But  you  did  n't  come  here  to  discuss 
your  charms  —  now  did  you?" 

She  shook  her  head  slightly,  smiling  with  light- 
hearted  malice.  "  By  no  means.  But,  at  the  same  time, 
if  I  've  a  whim  to  be  complimented,  I  do  think  you 
might  be  gallant  enough  to  humour  me." 

But  he  was  in  anything  but  a  gallant  temper.  Mys 
tery  hedged  his  thoughts  about  and  possessed  them;  he 
couldn't  rid  his  imagination  of  the  inexplicable  cir 
cumstances  of  the  man  who  had  broken  into  his  rooms 
to  steal  nothing,  and  the  knot  of  velvet  ribbon  that  had 
dropped  from  nowhere  to  his  study  floor.  And  when  he 
forced  his  thoughts  back  to  Alison,  it  was  only  to  feel 
again  the  smart  of  some  of  the  stinging  things  she  had 
chosen  to  say  to  him  that  night  during  their  discussion 
of  his  play,  and  to  be  conscious  of  a  certain  amount  of 
irritation  because  of  the  effrontery  of  her  present  pose, 
assuming  as  it  did  that  he  would  eventually  bend  to 
her  will,  endure  all  manner  of  insolence  and  indignity, 
because  he  hoped  she  would  marry  him. 

Something  of  what  was  passing  through  his  mind  as 
he  stood  mute  before  her,  she  read  in  his  look  —  or 
intuitively  divined. 

"Heavens!"  she  cried,  "you're  as  temperamental 
as  a  leading-man.  Can't  you  accept  a  word  or  two  of 
criticism  of  your  precious  play  without  sulking  like  — 


144  THE    BANDBOX 

like  Max  does  when  I  make  up  my  mind  to  take  a  week's 
rest  in  the  middle  of  the  season?" 

"Criticise  as  much  as  you  like,"  he  said;  "and  I  '11 
listen  and  take  it  to  heart.  But  I  don't  mind  telling 
you  I  'm  not  going  to  twist  this  play  out  of  all 
dramatic  semblance  at  your  dictation  —  or  Max's 
either." 

For  a  moment  their  glances  crossed  like  swords;  he 
was  conscious  from  the  flicker  in  her  eyes  that  her  tem 
per  was  straining  at  the  leash;  and  his  jaw  assumed  a 
certain  look  of  grim  solidity.  But  the  outbreak  he 
expected  did  not  come;  Alison  was  an  artiste  too  con 
summate  not  to  be  able  to  control  and  mask  her  emo 
tions  —  even  as  she  did  now  with  a  quick  curtaining 
of  her  eyes  behind  long  lashes. 

"Don't  let 's  talk  about  that  now,"  she  said  in  a 
soft,  placating  voice.  "That 's  a  matter  for  hours  of 
business.  We  're  getting  farther  and  farther  away  from 
my  errand." 

"By  all  means,"  he  returned  pleasantly,  "let  us  go 
to  that  at  once." 

"You  can't  guess?"  She  unmasked  again  the  bat 
tery  of  her  laughing  eyes.  He  shook  his  head.  "  I  '11 
give  you  three  guesses." 

He  found  the  courage  to  say:  "You  did  n't  come  to 
•confess  that  I  'm  in  the  right  about  the  play  ?  " 


THE    WRONG    BOX  145 

She  pouted  prettily.  "Can't  you  let  that  be?  No, 
of  course  not." 

"Nor  to  bicker  about  it?" 

She  laughed  a  denial. 

"Nor  yet  to  conduct  a  guessing  contest?" 

"No." 

"Then  I  've  exhausted  my  allowance.  .  .  .  Well?" 

"I  came,"  she  drawled,  "for  my  hat." 

"Your  hat?"    His  eyes  opened  wide. 

She  nodded.  "My  pretty  hat.  You  remember 
you  promised  to  give  it  to  me  if  nobody  else  claimed 
it." 

"Yes,  but  ..." 

"And  nobody  has  claimed  it?" 

"No,  but  ..." 

"Then  I  want  my  hat." 

"But  —  hold  on  —  give  somebody  a  chance  — " 

"Stupid?"  she  laughed.  "Isn't  it  enough  that  I 
claim  it?  Am  I  nobody?" 

"Wait  half  a  minute.  You  Ve  got  me  going."  He 
paused,  frowning  thoughtfully,  recollecting  his  wits; 
then  by  degrees  the  light  began  to  dawn  upon  him, 
"  Do  you  mean  you  really  did  send  me  that  confounded 
bandbox?" 

Coolly  she  inclined  her  head:  "I  did  just  that,  my 
dear." 


146  THE    BANDBOX 

"But  when  I  asked  you  the  same  question  on  the 
Autocratic — " 

"Quite  so:  I  denied  it." 

"And  you  were  hi  London  that  Friday,  after  all?" 

"I  was.  Had  to  be,  had  n't  I,  hi  order  to  buy  the 
hat  and  have  it  sent  you?" 

"But  —  how  did  you  know  I  was  sailing  Saturday?" 

"I  happened  to  go  to  the  steamship  office  just  after 
you  had  booked  —  saw  a  clerk  adding  your  name  to 
the  passenger-list  on  the  bulletin-board.  That  gave  me 
the  inspiration.  I  had  already  bought  the  hat,  but  I 
drove  back  to  the  shop  and  instructed  them  to  send  it 
to  you." 

"But,  Alison!  to  what  end?" 

"Well,"  she  said  languidly,  smiling  with  amusement 
at  his  bewilderment,  "I  thought  it  might  be  fun  to 
hoodwink  you." 

"But  —  I  fail  to  see  the  joke." 

"And  will,  until  I  tell  you  All." 

Her  tone  supplied  the  capital  letter. 

He  shrugged  helplessly.    "Proceed  ..." 

"Well,"  she  began  with  sublime  insouciance,  "you 
see,  I  'd  been  figuring  all  the  while  on  getting  the 
necklace  home  duty-free.  And  I  finally  hit  upon  what 
seemed  a  rather  neat  little  plot.  The  hat  was  part  of  it; 
I  bought  it  for  the  express  purpose  of  smuggling  the 


THE    WRONG    BOX  147 

necklace  in,  concealed  in  its  lining.  Up  to  that  point 
you  were  n't  involved.  Then  by  happy  accident  I  saw 
your  name  on  the  list.  Instantly  it  flashed  upon  me, 
how  I  could  make  you  useful.  It  was  just  possible, 
you  see,  that  those  hateful  customs  men  might  be 
shrewd  enough  to  search  the  hat,  too.  How  much 
better,  then,  to  make  you  bring  in  the  hat,  all  unsus 
pecting!  They  'd  never  think  of  searching  it  in  your 
hands!  You  see?" 

His  face  had  been  hardening  during  this  amazing 
speech.  When  she  stopped  he  shot  in  a  crisp 
question: 

"The  necklace  wasn't  in  the  hat  when  delivered 
to  me?  You  did  n't  trust  it  to  the  shop  people  over 
night?" 

"Of  course  not.  I  merely  sent  you  the  hat;  then  — 
as  I  knew  you  would  —  you  mentioned  it  to  me  aboard 
ship.  I  got  you  to  bring  it  to  my  room,  and  then  sent 
you  out  —  you  remember?  While  you  waited  I  sewed 
the  necklace  in  the  lining;  it  took  only  an  instant. 
Then  Jane  carried  the  hat  back  to  your  steward." 

"So,"  he  commented  stupidly,  "it  wasn't  stolen!" 

"Naturally  not." 

"But  you  threw  suspicion  on  Iff  — " 

"  I  daresay  he  was  guilty  enough  in  intent,  if  not  in 
deed.  There  's  not  the  slightest  doubt  in  my  mind 


148  THE    BANDBOX 

that  he  's  that  man  Ismay,  really,  and  that  he  shipped 
with  us  for  the  especial  purpose  of  stealing  the  neck 
lace  if  he  got  half  a  chance." 

"You  may  be  right;  I  don't  know  —  and  neither  do 
you.  But  do  you  realise  that  you  came  near  causing 
an  innocent  man  to  be  jailed  for  the  theft?" 

"But  I  did  n't.    He  got  away." 

"But  not  Iff  alone  —  there's  myself.  Have  you 
paused  to  consider  what  would  have  happened  to  me 
if  the  inspector  had  happened  to  find  that  necklace  in 
the  hat?  Heavens  knows  how  he  missed  it!  He  was 
persistent  enough !  .  .  .  But  if  he  had  found  it,  I  'd 
have  been  jailed  for  theft." 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said  sweetly;  "I  'd  never  have  let  it 
go  that  far." 

"Not  even  if  to  confess  would  mean  that  you  'd  be 
sent  to  jail  for  smuggling?  " 

"They  'd  never  do  that  to  a  woman.  ..." 

But  her  eyes  shifted  from  his  uneasily,  and  he  saw 
her  colour  change  a  trifle. 

"You  know  better  than  that.  You  read  the  papers 
—  keep  informed.  You  know  what  happened  to  the 
last  woman  who  tried  to  smuggle.  I  forgot  how  long 
they  sent  her  up  for  —  five  months,  or  something  like 
that." 

She  was  silent,  her  gaze  evasive. 


THE    WRONG    BOX  149 

"You  remember  that,  don't  you?" 

"Perhaps  I  do,"  she  admitted  unwillingly. 

"And  you  don't  pretend  you  'd  Ve  faced  such  a 
prospect  in  order  to  clear  me?" 

Again  she  had  no  answer  for  him.  He  turned  up  the 
room  to  the  windows  and  back  again. 

"  I  did  n't  think,"  he  said  slowly,  stopping  before  her 
"  I  could  n't  have  thought  you  could  be  so  heartless, 
so  self-centred  ...  !  " 

She  rose  suddenly  and  put  a  pleading  hand  upon  his 
arm,  standing  very  near  him  in  all  her  loveliness. 

"Say  thoughtless,  Staff,"  she  said  quietly;  "I  did  n't 
mean  it." 

"That 's  hard  to  credit,"  he  replied  steadily,  "when 
I  'm  haunted  by  the  memory  of  the  lies  you  told  me  — 
to  save  yourself  a  few  dollars  honestly  due  the  country 
that  has  made  you  a  rich  woman — to  gain  for  yourself 
a  few  paltry  columns  of  cheap,  sensational  newspaper 
advertising.  For  that  you  lied  to  me  and  put  me  in 
jeopardy  of  Sing-Sing  .  .  .  me,  the  man  you  pretend 
to  care  for — " 

"Hold  on,  Staff!"  the  woman  interrupted  harshly. 

He  moved  awray.  Her  arm  dropped  back  to  her  side. 
She  eyed  him  a  moment  with  eyes  hard  and  unfriendly. 

"You  Ve  said  about  enough,"  she  continued. 

"You  're  not  prepared  to  deny  that  you  had  these 


150  THE    BANDBOX 

possibilities  in  mind  when  you  lied  to  me  and  made  me 
your  dupe  and  cat's-paw?" 

"I  'm  not  prepared  to  argue  the  matter  with  you," 
she  flung  back  at  him,  "nor  to  hold  myself  answerable 
to  you  for  any  thing  I  may  choose  to  say  or  do." 

He  bowed  ceremoniously. 

"I  think  that 's  all,"  he  said  pleasantly. 

"It  is,"  she  agreed  curtly;  then  in  a  lighter  tone  she 
added:  "There  remains  for  me  only  to  take  my  blue 
dishes  and  go  home." 

As  she  spoke  she  moved  over  to  the  corner  where  the 
bandbox  lay  ingloriously  on  its  undamaged  side.  As 
she  bent  over  it,  Staff  abstractedly  took  and  lighted 
another  cigarette. 

"  What  made  you  undo  it?  "  he  heard  the  woman  ask. 

He  swung  round  in  surprise.  "I?  I  have  n't  touched 
the  thing  since  it  was  brought  in  —  beyond  kicking  it 
out  of  the  way." 

"The  string's  off  —  it's  been  opened!"  Alison's 
voice  was  trembling  with  excitement.  She  straight 
ened  up,  holding  the  box  in  both  hands,  and  came 
hastily  over  to  the  table  beside  which  he  was  standing 
"You  see?"  she  said  breathlessly,  putting  it  down. 

"The  string  was  on  it  when  I  saw  it  last,"  he  told  her 
blankly.  .  .  . 

Then  the  memory  recurred  of  the  man  who  had  passed 


THE    WRONG    BOX  151 

him  at  the  door  —  the  man  who,  he  suspected,  had 
forced  an  entrance  to  his  rooms.  .  .  . 

Alison  was  plucking  nervously  at  the  cover  without 
lifting  it. 

"Why  don't  you  look?"  he  demanded,  irritated. 

"I  —  I  'm  afraid,"  she  said  in  a  broken  voice. 

Nevertheless,  she  removed  the  cover. 

For  a  solid,  silent  minute  both  stared,  stupified. 
The  hat  they  knew  so  well  —  the  big  black  hat  with 
its  willow  plume  and  buckle  of  brilliants  —  had  van 
ished.  In  its  place  they  saw  the  tumbled  wreckage  of 
what  had  once  been  another  hat  distinctly:  wisps  of 
straw  dyed  purple,  fragments  of  feathers,  bits  of  violet- 
coloured  ribbon  and  silk  which,  mixed  with  wads  and 
shreds  of  white  tissue-paper,  filled  the  box  to  brimming. 

Staff  thrust  a  hand  in  his  pocket  and  produced  the 
knot  of  violet  ribbon.  It  matched  exactly  the  torn 
ribbon  in  the  box. 

"So  that,"  he  murmured  —  "that's  where  this 
came  from!" 

Alison  paid  no  attention.  Of  a  sudden  she  began 
digging  furiously  in  the  debris  in  the  box,  throwing 
out  its  contents  by  handfuls  until  she  had  uncovered 
the  bottom  without  finding  any  sign  of  what  she  had 
thought  to  find.  Then  she  paused,  meeting  his  gaze 
with  one  half-wrathful,  half-hysterical. 


152  THE    BANDBOX 

"What  does  this  mean?"  she  demanded,  as  if  ready 
to  hold  him  to  account. 

"I  think,"  he  said  slowly  —  "I  'm  strongly  inclined 
to  believe  it  means  that  you  're  an  uncommonly  lucky 
woman." 

"How  do  you  make  that  out?"  she  demanded  in 
a  breath. 

"I  '11  tell  you,"  he  said,  formulating  his  theory 
as  he  spoke:  "When  I  came  home  tonight,  a  man 
passed  me  at  the  door,  fairly  running  out  —  I  fancy, 
to  escape  recognition;  there  was  something  about 
him  that  seemed  familiar.  Then  I  came  up  here, 
found  my  door  ajar,  when  I  distinctly  remembered 
locking  it,  found  my  windows  shut  and  the  shades 
drawn,  when  I  distinctly  remembered  leaving  them 
up,  and  finally  found  this  knot  of  ribbon  on  the  floor. 
I  was  trying  to  account  for  it  when  you  drove  up. 
Now  it  seems  plain  enough  that  this  fellow  knew 
or  suspected  you  of  hiding  the  necklace  in  the  hat, 
knew  that  I  had  it,  and  came  here  in  my  absence 
to  steal  it.  He  found  instead  this  hat,  and  knowing 
no  better  tore  it  to  pieces  trying  to  find  what  he 
was  after." 

"But  where  —  where  's  my  hat?" 

"  I  '11  tell  you."  Staff  crossed  the  room  and  picked 
up  the  string  and  label  which  had  been  on  the  box. 


THE    WRONG    BOX  153 

Returning,  he  examined  the  tag  and  read  aloud: 
"  Miss  Eleanor  Searle."  He  handed  the  tag  to  Alison. 
"  Find  Miss  Searle  and  you  '11  find  your  hat.  It 
happens  that  she  had  a  bandbox  the  exact  dupli 
cate  of  yours.  I  remember  telling  'you  about  it,  on 
the  steamer.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  was  in  the 
shop  the  afternoon  you  ordered  your  hat  sent  to 
me,  though  she  steadily  refused  to  tell  me  who  was 
responsible  for  that  imposition.  Now,  on  the  pier 
today,  our  luggage  was  placed  side  by  side,  Hers 
with  mine  —  both  in  the  S  section,  you  understand. 
My  examination  was  finished  first  and  I  was  taken 
back  to  my  stateroom  to  be  searched,  as  you  know. 
While  I  was  gone,  her  examination  was  evidently 
finished,  for  when  I  came  back  she  had  left  the  pier 
with  all  her  things.  Quite  plainly  she  must  have 
taken  your  box  by  mistake  for  her  own;  this,  of 
course,  is  her  hat.  As  I  said  at  first,  find  Miss  Searle 
and  you  '11  find  your  hat  and  necklace.  Also,  find 
the  person  to  whom  you  confided  this  gay  young 
swindling  scheme  of  yours,  and  you  '11  find  the  man 
who  was  intimate  enough  with  the  affair  to  come 
to  my  rooms  in  my  absence  and  go  direct  to  the 
bandbox  for  the  necklace." 

"I  —  but  I  told  nobody,"  she  stammered. 

By  the  look  in  her  eyes  he  disbelieved  her. 


154  THE    BANDBOX 

"Not  even  Max,  this  morning,  before  he  offered 
that  reward?"  he  asked  shrewdly. 

"Well  — yes;  I  told  him.'* 

"Max  may  have  confided  it  to  somebody  else: 
these  things  spread.  Or  possibly  Jane  may  have 
blabbed." 

"Oh,  no,"  she  protested,  but  without  conviction 
in  her  accents;  "neither  of  them  would  be  so 
foolish.  ..." 

"  I  'd  find  out,  if  I  were  you." 

"I  shall.  Meanwhile  —  this  Miss  Searle  — 
where 's  she  stopping?" 

"  I  can't  tell  you  —  some  hotel.  It  '11  be  easy 
enough  to  find  her  in  the  morning." 

"Will  you  try?" 

"Assuredly  —  the  first  thing." 

"  Then  —  there  appears  to  be  nothing  else  to 
do  but  go  home,"  said  the  woman  in  a  curiously 
subdued  manner. 

Without  replying  verbally,  Staff  took  up  her 
chiffon  wrap  and  draped  it  over  her  shoulders. 

"Thank  you,"  said  she,  moving  toward  the  door. 
"Goodnight." 

"Oh,"  he  protested  politely,  "I  must  see  you 
out." 

"  It 's  not  necessary  —  I  can  find  my  way." 


THE    WRONG    BOX  155 

"But  only  I  know  how  to  fix  the  front  door." 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  while  he  fumbled  with 
the  latch,  doubting  him,  she  spoke  with  some 
little  hesitation. 

"I  presume,"  she  said  stifHy  —  "I  presume  that 
this  —  ah  —  ends  it." 

Staff  opened  the  door  an  inch  and  held  it  so. 
"If  by '  it,'  "  he  replied,  "we  mean  the  same  thing — ' 

"We  do." 

"It  does,"  he  asseverated  with  his  twisted  smile. 

She  delayed  an  instant  longer.  "But  all  the 
same,"  she  said  hastily,  at  length,  "I  want  that 
play." 

"My  play?"  he  enquired  with  significant  emphasis. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  she  said  sharply. 

"  Well,  since  I  'm  under  contract  with  Max,  I 
don't  well  see  how  I  can  take  it  away  from  you. 
And  besides,  you  're  the  only  woman  living  who 
can  play  it  properly." 

"So  good  of  you."  Her  hand  lay  slim  and  cool 
in  his  for  the  fraction  of  an  instant.  "  Good  night," 
she  iterated,  withdrawing  it. 

"Goodnight." 

As  he  let  her  out,  Staff,  glancing  down  at  the 
waiting  taxicab,  was  faintly  surprised  by  the  dis 
covery  that  she  had  not  come  alone.  A  man  stood 


156  THE    BANDBOX 

in  waiting  by  the  door  —  a  man  in  evening  clothes: 
not  Max  but  a  taller  man,  more  slender,  with  a 
better  carriage.  Turning  to  help  Alison  into  the 
cab,  the  street  lights  threw  his  face  in  sharp  relief 
against  the  blackness  of  the  window;  and  Staff 
knew  him. 

"Arkroyd!"  he  said  beneath  his  breath. 

He  closed  the  door  and  set  the  latch,  suffering 
from  a  species  of  mild  astonishment.  His  psycho 
logical  processes  seemed  to  him  rather  unique;  he 
felt  that  he  was  hardly  playing  the  game  according 
to  Hoyle.  A  man  who  has  just  broken  with  the 
woman  with  whom  he  has  believed  himself  des 
perately  in  love  naturally  counts  on  feeling  a  bit 
down  in  the  mouth.  And  seeing  her  drive  off  with 
one  whom  he  has  every  right  to  consider  in  the  light 
of  a  hated  rival,  he  ought  in  common  decency  to 
suffer  poignant  pangs  of  jealousy.  But  Staff  did  n't; 
he  could  n't  honestly  make  himself  believe  that 
he  was  suffering  in  any  way  whatever.  Indeed,  the 
most  violent  emotion  to  which  he  was  sensible  was 
one  of  chagrin  over  his  own  infatuate  myopia. 

"Ass!"  he  called  himself,  slowly  reascending  the 
stairs.  "  You  might  've  seen  this  coming  long  ago, 
if  you  had  n't  wilfully  chosen  to  be  blind  as  a 
bat!" 


THE    WRONG    BOX  157 

Re-entering  his  study,  he  pulled  up  with  a  start 
and  a  cry  of  sincere  amazement. 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned!" 

"Then  why  not  lead  a  better  life?"  enquired 
Mr.  Iff. 

He  was  standing  in  the  doorway  to  the  bedroom, 
looking  much  like  an  exceptionally  cruel  caricature 
of  himself.  As  he  spoke,  he  slouched  wearily  over 
to  the  wing-chair  Alison  had  recently  occupied,  and 
dropped  into  it  like  a  dead  weight. 

He  wore  no  hat.  His  clothing  was  in  a  shocking 
condition,  damp,  shapeless  and  shrunken  to  such 
an  extent  as  to  disclose  exhibits  of  bony  wrists  and 
ankles  almost  immodestly  generous.  On  his  bird-like 
cranium  the  pale,  smooth  scalp  shone  pink  through 
scanty,  matted,  damp  blond  locks.  His  face  was 
drawn,  pinched  and  pale.  As  if  new  to  the  light  his 
baby-blue  eyes  blinked  furiously.  Round  his  thin  lips 
hovered  his  habitual  smile,  semi-sardonic,  semi-sheepish. 

"Do  you  mind  telling  me  how  in  thunder  you 
got  in  here?"  asked  Staff  courteously. 

Iff  waved  a  hand  toward  the  bedroom. 

"Fire-escape,"  he  admitted  wearily.  "Happened 
to  see  your  light  and  thought  I  'd  call .  Hope  I 
don't  intrude.  .  .  .  Got  anything  to  drink?  I  'm 
about  all  in." 


IX 

A   LIKELY   STORY 

IF  I  'm  any  judge,  that 's  no  exaggeration." 
Thus  Mr.  Staff  after  a  moment's  pause  which 
he  utilised  to  look  Mr.  Iff  over  with  a  critical  eye. 

Mr.  Iff  wagged  his  head.  "Believe  me,"  said  he 
simply. 

Staff  fetched  a  decanter  of  Scotch  and  a  glass, 
placing  them  on  the  table  by  Iff's  elbow,  then  turned 
away  to  get  a  siphon  of  charged  water  from  the 
icebox.  But  by  the  time  he  was  back  a  staggering 
amount  of  whiskey  had  disappeared  from  the  de 
canter,  a  moist  but  empty  glass  stood  beside  it,  and 
Mr.  Iff  was  stroking  smiling  lips  with  his  delicate, 
claw-like  fingers.  He  discontinued  this  occupation 
long  enough  to  wave  the  siphon  away. 

"Not  for  me,"  he  said  tersely.  "I  've  swallowed 
enough  water  this  night  to  last  me  for  the  rest  of 
my  life  —  half  of  the  North  River,  more  or  less; 
rather  more,  if  you  ask  me." 

158 


A    LIKELY    STORY  159 

"What  were  you  doing  in  the  North  River?" 

"  Swimming." 

This  answer  was  evidently  so  adequate  in  Mr. 
Iff's  understanding  that  he  made  no  effort  to  elabor 
ate  upon  it;  so  that  presently,  growing  impatient, 
Staff  felt  called  upon  to  ask : 

"Well?    What  were  you  swimming  for?" 

"Dear  life,"  said  Iff  — "life,  liberty  and  the 
pursuit  of  happiness:  the  incontestable  birthright 
of  every  freeborn  American  citizen  —  if  you  must 
know." 

He  relapsed  into  a  reverie  which  seemed  hugely 
diverting  from  the  reminiscent  twinkle  in  the  little 
man's  eyes.  From  this  he  emerged  long  enough  to 
remark:  "That's  prime  whiskey,  you  know.  .  .  . 
Thanks  very  much,  I  will."  And  again  fell  silent, 
stroking  his  lips. 

"I  don't  want  to  seem  to  pry,"  said  Staff  at 
length,  with  elaborate  irony;  "but  in  view  of  the 
fact  that  you  've  felt  warranted  in  calling  on  me 
via  the  fire-escape  at  one  A.M.,  it  doesn't  seem 
unreasonable  of  me  to  expect  some  sort  of  an 
explanation." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  returned  Iff,  with  resignation. 
"What  would  you  like  to  know?" 

"  Why  did  you  disappear  this  morning  —  ?  " 


160  THE    BANDBOX 

"Yesterday  morning,"  Iff  corrected  dispassionately. 

" — yesterday  morning,  and  how?" 

"Because  the  time  seemed  ripe  for  me  to  do  my 
marvellous  vanishing  stunt.  You  see,  I  had  a  hunch 
that  the  dear  captain  would  turn  things  over  in  his 
mind  and  finally  determine  not  to  accept  my  creden 
tials  at  their  face  value.  So  I  kind  of  stuck  round 
the  wireless  room  with  my  ears  intelligently  pricked 
forward.  Sure  enough,  presently  I  heard  the  mes 
sage  go  out,  asking  what  about  me  and  how  so." 

"You  mean  you  read  the  operator's  sending  by 
ear?" 

"Sure;  I  've  got  a  telegrapher's  ear  as  long  as  a 
mule's.  .  .  .  Whereupon,  knowing  just  about  what 
sort  of  an  answer  'd  come  through,  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  duck.  And  did." 

"But  how  —  ?" 

"  That  'd  be  telling,  and  telling  would  get  some 
body  aboard  the  Autocratic  into  terrible  bad  trouble 
if  it  ever  leaked  out.  I  crawled  in  out  of  the  weather 
—  let  it  go  at  that.  I  wish,"  said  Mr.  Iff  soulfully, 
"  those  damn'  Pinkerton  men  had  let  it  go  at  that. 
Once  or  twice  I  really  thought  they  had  me,  or 
would  have  me  the  next  minute.  And  they  would  n't 
give  up.  That 's  why  I  had  to  take  to  the  water, 
after  dark.  My  friend,  who  shall  be  nameless,  lent 


A    LIKELY    STORY  161 

me  the  loan  of  a  rope  and  I  shinned  down  and  had 
a  nice  little  swim  before  I  found  a  place  to  crawl 
ashore.  I  assure  you  that  the  North  River  tastes 
like  hell.  .  .  .  O  thank  you;  don't  mind  if  I  do." 

"Then,"  said  Staff,  watching  the  little  man  help 
himself  on  his  own  invitation  —  "  Then  you  are 
Ismay!" 

"Wrong  again,"  said  Iff  drearily.  "Honest,  it's 
a  real  shame,  the  way  you  can't  seem  to  win  any 
bets  at  all." 

"If  you  're  not  Ismay,  what  made  you  hide?" 

"Ah!"  cried  Iff  admiringly  —  "shrewd  and  per 
tinent  question!  Now  I  '11  tell  you,  and  you  won't 
believe  me.  Because —  now  pay  strict  attention  — 
because  we  're  near-twins." 

"Who  are  twins?"  demanded  Staff  staring. 

"  Him  and  me  —  Ismay  and  I-double-F.  First 
cousins  we  are:  his  mother  was  my  aunt.  Worse 
and  more  of  it:  our  fathers  were  brothers.  They 
married  the  same  day;  Ismay  and  I  were  born  in 
the  same  month.  We  look  just  enough  alike  to  be 
mistaken  for  one  another  when  we  're  not  together. 
That 's  been  a  great  help  to  him;  he  's  made  me 
more  trouble  than  I  've  time  to  tell  you.  The  last 
time,  I  was  pinched  in  his  place  and  escaped  a  peni 
tentiary  sentence  by  the  narrowest  kind  of  a  shave. 


162  THE    BANDBOX 

That  got  my  mad  up,  and  I  served  notice  on  him  to 
quit  his  foolishness  or  I  'd  get  after  him.  He  re 
plied  by  cooking  up  a  fine  little  scheme  that  almost 
laid  me  by  the  heels  again.  So  I  declared  war  and 
Ve  been  camping  on  his  trail  ever  since." 

He  paused  and  twiddled  his  thumbs,  staring 
reflectively  at  the  ceiling.  "  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know 
why  I  bore  myself  telling  you  all  this.  What 's  the 
use?" 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Staff  in  an  encouraging  man 
ner;  he  was  genuinely  diverted.  "At  worst  it's 
a  worthy  and  uplifting  —  ah  —  fiction.  Go  on.  ... 
Then  you  're  not  a  Secret  Service  man  after  all?" 

"Nothing  like  that;  I  'm  doing  this  thing  on  my 
own." 

"How  about  that  forged  paper  you  showed  the 
captain?" 

"  Was  n't  forged  —  genuine." 

"Chapter  Two,"  observed  Staff,  leaning  back. 
"It  is  a  dark  and  stormy  night;,  we  are  all  seated 
about  the  camp-fire.  The  captain  says:  'Antonio, 
go  to  it.'" 

"You  are  certainly  one  swell,  appreciative  audi 
ence,"  commented  Iff  morosely.  "Let's  see  if  I 
can't  get  a  laugh  with  this  one:  One  of  the  best 
little  things  my  dear  little  cousin  does  being  to  pass 


A    LIKELY     STORY  163 

himself  off  as  me,  he  got  himself  hired  by  the  Treas 
ury  Department  some  years  ago  under  the  name  of 
William  Howard  Iff.  That  helped  him  a  lot  in  his 
particular  line  of  business.  But  after  a  while  he  felt 
that  it  cramped  his  style,  so  he  just  faded  noise 
lessly  away  —  retaining  his  credentials.  Then  — 
while  I  was  in  Paris  last  week  —  he  thought  it  would 
be  a  grand  joke  to  send  me  that  document  with  his 
compliments  and  the  suggestion  that  it  might  be 
some  help  to  me  in  my  campaign  for  his  scalp.  That 's 
how  I  happened  to  have  it." 

"That's  going  some,"  Staff  admitted  admir 
ingly.  "  Tell  me  another  one.  If  you  're  Iff  and 
not  Ismay,  what  brought  you  over  on  the  Auto 
cratic?" 

"Business  of  keeping  an  eye  on  my  dearly  beloved 
cousin,"  said  Iff  promptly. 

"You  mean  Ismay  was  on  board,  too?" 

'  'Member  that  undergrown  waster  with  the  red- 
and-grey  Vandyke  and  the  horn-rimmed  pince  nez, 
who  was  always  mooning  round  with  a  book  under 
his  arm?" 

"Yes  " 

-L  \*>iJ»       •       •       • 

"That  was  Cousin  Arbuthnot  disguised  in  his 
own  hair." 

"If  that  was  so,  why  didn't  you  denounce  him 


164  THE    BANDBOX 

when  you  were  accused  of  stealing  the  Cadogan 
collar?" 

"  Because  I  knew  he  had  n't  got  away  with  it." 

"How  did  you  know?" 

"  At  least  I  was  pretty  positive  about  it.  You  '11 
have  to  be  patient  —  and  intelligent  —  if  you  want 
to  understand  and  follow  me  back  to  Paris.  The 
three  of  us  were  there:  Ismay,  Miss  Landis,  myself. 
Miss  Landis  was  dickering  with  Cottier's  for  the 
necklace,  Ismay  sticking  round  and  not  losing  sight 
of  her  much  of  the  time,  I  was  looking  after  Ismay. 
Miss  Landis  buys  the  collar  and  a  ticket  for  London; 
Ismay  buys  a  ticket  for  London;  I  trail.  Then  Miss 
Landis  makes  another  purchase  —  a  razor,  in  a  shop 
near  the  hotel  where  I  happen  to  be  loafing." 

"A  razor!" 

"  That 's  the  way  it  struck  me,  too.  .  .  .  Scene 
Two:  Cockspur  Street,  London.  I  'm  not  sure  what 
boat  Miss  Landis  means  to  take;  I  've  got  a  notion 
it 's  the  Autocratic,  but  I  'm  stalling  till  I  know. 
You  drift  into  the  office,  I  recognise  you  and  recall 
that  you  're  pretty  thick  with  Miss  Landis.  Noth 
ing  more  natural  than  that  you  and  she  should  go 
home  by  the  same  steamer.  Similarly  —  Ismay. 
.  .  .  Oh,  yes,  I  understand  it  was  pure  coincidence; 
but  I  took  a  chance  and  filled  my  hand.  After  we  'd 


A    LIKELY    STORY  165 

booked  and  you  'd  strutted  off,  I  lingered  long  enough 
to  see  Miss  Landis  drive  up  in  a  taxi  with  a  whaling 
big  bandbox  on  top  of  the  cab.  She  booked  right 
under  my  nose;  I  made  a  note  of  the  bandbox.  .  .  . 

"Then  you  came  aboard  with  the  identical  band 
box  and  your  funny  story  about  how  you  happened 
to  have  it.  I  smelt  a  rat:  Miss  Landis  had  n't  sent 
you  that  bandbox  anonymously  for  no  purpose. 
Then  one  afternoon  —  long  toward  six  o'clock  — 
I  see  Miss  Landis's  maid  come  out  on  deck  and  jerk 
a  little  package  overboard  —  package  just  about 
big  enough  to  hold  a  razor.  That  night  I  'm  dragged 
up  on  the  carpet  before  the  captain;  I  hear  a  pretty 
fairy  tale  about  the  collar  disappearing  while  Jane 
was  taking  the  bandbox  back  to  your  steward.  The 
handbag  is  on  the  table,  in  plain  sight;  it  is  n't 
locked  —  a  blind  man  can  see  that;  and  the  slit 
in  its  side  has  been  made  by  a  razor.  I  add  up  the 
bandbox  and  the  razor  and  multiply  the  sum  by 
the  fact  that  the  average  woman  will  smuggle  as 
quick  as  the  average  man  will  take  a  drink;  and 
I  'm  Jeremiah  Wise,  Esquire." 

"That's  the  best  yet,"  Staff  applauded.  "But 
—  see  here  —  why  did  n't  you  tell  what  you  knew, 
if  you  knew  so  much,  when  you  were  accused?" 

Iff  grimaced  sourly.     "Get  ready  to  laugh.    This 


166  THE    BANDBOX 

is  one  you  won't  fall  for  —  not  in  a  thousand 
years." 

"Shoot,"  said  Staff. 

"I  like  you,"  said  Iff  simply.  "You're  foolish 
in  the  head  sometimes,  but  in  the  main  you  mean 
well." 

"That's  nice  of  you  —  but  what  has  it  to  do 
with  my  question?" 

"  Everything.  You  're  sweet  on  the  girl,  and  I 
don't  wish  to  put  a  crimp  in  your  young  romance 
by  showing  her  up  in  her  true  colours.  Furthermore, 
you  may  be  hep  to  her  little  scheme;  I  don't  believe 
it,  but  I  know  that,  if  you  are,  you  won't  let  me 
suffer  for  it.  And  finally,  in  the  senility  of  my  dotage 
I  conned  myself  into  believing  I  could  bluff  it  out; 
at  the  worst,  I  could  prove  my  innocence  easily 
enough.  But  what  I  did  n't  take  into  con 
sideration  was  that  I  was  laying  myself  open 
to  arrest  for  impersonating  an  agent  of  the 
Government.  When  I  woke  up  to  that  fact,  the 
only  thing  I  could  see  to  do  was  to  duck  in 
out  of  the  blizzard." 

Staff  said  sententiously :  "  Hmmm.  ..." 

"Pretty  thin  —  what?" 

"In  spots,"  Staff  agreed.  "Still,  I've  got  to 
admit  you  've  managed  to  cover  the  canvas,  even 


A    LIKELY    STORY  167 

if  your  supply  of  paint  was  a  bit  stingy.  One  thing 
still  bothers  me:  how  did  you  find  out  I  knew  about 
the  smuggling  game?  " 

Iff  nodded  toward  the  bedroom.     "I  happened 
in  —  casually,   as  the  saying  runs  —  just  as  Miss 
Landis  was  telling  on  herself." 
Staff  frowned. 

"How,"  he  pursued  presently,  "can  I  feel  sure 
you  're  not  Ismay,  and,  having  guessed  as  accur 
ately  as  you  did,  that  you  did  n't  get  at  that  band 
box  aboard  the  ship  and  take  the  necklace?  " 
"If  I  were,  and  had,  would  I  be  here?" 
"But  I  can't  understand  why  you  are  here!" 
"It 's  simple  enough;  I  've  any  number  of  reasons 
for  inviting  myself  to  be  your  guest.  For  one,  I  'm 
wet  and  cold  and  look  like  a  drowned  rat;  I  can't 
offer  myself  to  a  hotel  looking  like  this  —  can  I? 
Then  I  knew  your  address  —  you  '11  remember 
telling  me;  and  there's  an  adage  that  runs  'Any 
port  in  a  storm.'  You  're  going  to  be  good  enough 
to  get  my  money  changed  —  I  've  nothing  but  Eng 
lish  paper  —  and  buy  me  a  ready-made  outfit  in 
the  morning.  Moreover,  I  'm  after  Ismay,  and 
Ismay  's  after  the  necklace;  wherever  it  is,  he  will 
be,  soon  or  late.  Naturally  I  presumed  you  still 
had  it  —  and  so  did  he  until  within  the  hour." 


168  THE    BANDBOX 

"You  mean  you  think  it  was  Ismay  who  broke 
into  these  rooms  tonight?" 

"You  saw  him,  didn't  you?  Man  about  my 
size,  was  n't  he?  Evening  clothes?  That 's  his 
regulation  uniform  after  dark.  Beard  and  glasses 
-what?" 

"I  believe  you're  right!"  Staff  rose  excitedly. 
"  I  did  n't  notice  the  glasses,  but  otherwise  you  've 
described  him!" 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  Iff  helped  himself  to  a 
cigarette.  "  By  now  the  dirty  dog  's  probably  rais 
ing  heaven  and  hell  to  find  out  where  Miss  Searle 
has  hidden  herself." 

Staff  began  to  pace  nervously  to  and  fro.  "I 
wish,"  he  cried,  "I  knew  where  to  find  her!" 

"Please,"  Iff  begged  earnestly,  "don't  let  your 
sense  of  the  obligations  of  a  host  interfere  with 
your  amusements;  but  if  you  '11  stop  that  Marathon 
long  enough  to  find  me  a  blanket,  I  '11  shed  these 
rags  and,  by  your  good  leave,  curl  up  cunningly  on 
yon  divan." 

Staff  paused,  stared  at  the  little  man's  bland  and 
guileless  face,  and  shook  his  head  helplessly,  laughing. 

"  There  's  no  resisting  your  colossal  gall,"  he  said, 
passing  into  the  adjoining  room  to  get  bed-clothing 
for  his  guest. 


A    LIKELY    STORY  169 

"I  admit  it,"  said  Iff  placidly. 

As  Staff  returned,  the  telephone  bell  rang.  In 
his  surprise  he  paused  with  his  arms  full  of  sheets, 
blankets  and  pillows,  and  stared  incredulously  at 
his  desk. 

"What  the  deuce  now?"  he  murmured. 

"The  quickest  way  to  an  answer  to  that,"  sug 
gested  Iff  blandly,  "is  there."  He  indicated  the 
telephone  with  an  ample  gesture.  "Help  your 
self." 

Dropping  his  burden  on  the  divan,  Staff  seated 
himself  at  the  desk  and  took  up  the  receiver. 

"Hello?" 

He  started  violently,  recognising  the  voice  that 
answered:  "Mr.  Staff?" 

"Yes—" 

"This  is  Miss  Searle." 

"I  know,"  he  stammered;  "I  —  I  knew  your 
voice." 

"Really?"  The  query  was  perfunctory.  "Mr. 
Staff  —  I  could  n't  wait  to  tell  you  —  I  've  just 
got  in  from  a  theatre  and  supper  party  with  some 
friends." 

"  Yes,"  he  said.    "  Where  are  you?  " 

Disregarding  his  question,  the  girl's  voice  con 
tinued  quickly:  "I  wanted  to  see  my  hat  and  opened 


170  THE    BANDBOX 

the  bandbox.  It  was  n't  my  hat  —  it 's  the  one  you 
described  —  the  one  that  — " 

"I  know,"  he  interrupted;  "I  know  all  about  that 
now." 

"Yes,"  she  went  on  hurriedly,  unheeding  his  words. 
"I  admired  and  examined  it.  It  —  there  's  something 
else." 

"I  know,"  he  said  again;  "the  Cadogan  collar." 

"Oh!"  There  was  an  accent  of  surprise  in  her  voice. 
"  Well,  I  Ve  ordered  a  taxi,  and  I  'm  going  to  bring  it 
to  you  right  away.  The  thing  's  too  valuable  —  " 

"MissSearle  — " 

"  I  'm  afraid  to  keep  it  here.  I  wanted  to  find  out 
if  you  were  up  —  that 's  why  I  called." 

"But,  MissSearle  — " 

"The  taxi 's  waiting  now.  I  '11  be  at  your  door  in 
fifteen  minutes." 

"But  —  " 

"Good-bye." 

He  heard  the  click  as  she  hung  up  the  receiver;  and 
nothing  more.  With  an  exclamation  of  annoyance  he 
swung  round  from  the  desk. 

"Somebody  coming?"  enquired  If!  brightly. 

Staff  eyed  him  with  overt  distrust.  "Yes,"  he  said 
reluctantly. 

"Miss  Searle  bringing  the  evanescent  collar,  eh?" 


A  LIKELY    STORY 

Staff  nodded  curtly. 

"Plagued  nuisance,"  commented  Iff.  "And  me 
wanting  to  go  to  sleep  the  worst  I  ever  did." 

"Don't  let  this  keep  you  up,"  said  Staff. 

"But,"  Iff  remonstrated,  "you  can't  receire  a  lady 
in  here  with  me  asleep  on  your  divan." 

"I  don't  intend  to,"  Staff  told  him  bluntly.  "I  'm 
going  to  meet  the  taxi  at  the  door,  get  into  it  with  her, 
and  take  that  infernal  necklace  directly  to  Miss  Landis, 
at  her  hotel." 

"The  more  I  see  of  you,"  said  Mr.  Iff,  removing  his 
coat,  "the  more  qualities  I  discover  in  you  to  excite 
my  admiration  and  liking.  As  in  this  instance  when 
with  thoughtf ulness  for  my  comfort"  —  he  tore  from 
his  neck  the  water-soaked  rag  that  had  been  his  collar 
—  you  combine  a  prudent,  not  to  say  sagacious  fore 
sight,  whereby  you  plan  to  place  the  Cadogan  collar 
far  beyond  my  reach  in  event  I  should  turn  out  to  be 
a  gay  deceiver." 

By  way  of  response,  Staff  found  his  hat  and  placed 
it  handily  on  the  table,  went  to  his  desk  and  took  from 
one  of  its  drawers  a  small  revolver  of  efficient  aspect, 
unloaded  and  reloaded  it  to  satisfy  himself  it  was  in 
good  working  order  —  and  of  a  sudden  looked  round 
suspiciously  at  Mr.  Iff. 

The  latter,  divested  of  his  clothing  and  swathed  in 


172  THE    BANDBOX 

a  dressing-gown  several  sizes  too  large  for  him,  fulfilled 
his  host's  expectations  by  laughing  openly  at  these 
warlike  preparations. 

"I  infer,"  he  said,  "that  you  wouldn't  be  sur 
prised  to  meet  up  with  Cousin  Arbuthnot  before 
sunrise." 

"  I  'm  taking  no  chances,"  Staff  announced  with 
dignity. 

"Well,  if  you  should  meet  him,  and  if  you  mean 
what  you  act  like,  and  if  that  gun  's  any  good,  and  if 
you  know  how  to  use  it,"  yawned  Mr.  Iff,  "you  '11  do 
me  a  favour  and  save  me  a  heap  of  trouble  into  the 
bargain.  Good  night." 

He  yawned  again  in  a  most  business-like  way,  lay 
down,  pulled  a  blanket  up  round  his  ears,  turned  his 
back  to  the  light  and  was  presently  breathing  with  the 
sweet  and  steady  regularity  of  a  perfectly  sound  and 
sincere  sleeper. 

To  make  his  rest  the  more  comfortable,  Staff  turned 
off  all  the  lights  save  that  on  his  desk.  Then  he  filled 
a  pipe  and  sat  down  to  envy  the  little  man.  The  very 
name  of  sleep  was  music  in  his  hearing,  just  then. 

The  minutes  lagged  on  leaden  wings.  There  was  a 
great  hush  in  the  old  house,  and  the  street  itself  was 
quiet.  Once  or  twice  Staff  caught  himself  nodding; 
then  he  would  straighten  up,  steel  his  will  and  spur  his 


A    LIKELY    STORY  173 

senses  to  attention,  waiting,  listening,  straining  to 
catch  the  sound  of  an  approaching  taxi.  He  seemed  to 
hear  every  imaginable  night  noise  but  that:  the  crash 
and  whine  of  trolleys,  the  footsteps  of  a  scattered  hand 
ful  of  belated  pedestrians,  the  infrequent  windy  roar 
of  trains  on  the  Third  Avenue  L,  empty  clapping  of 
horses'  hoofs  on  the  asphalt  .  .  .  the  yowl  of  a 
sentimental  tomcat  ...  a  dull  and  distant  grumble, 
vague,  formless,  like  a  long,  unending  roll  of  thunder 
down  the  horizon  .  .  .  the  swish  and  sough  of  waters 
breaking  away  from  the  flanks  of  the  Autocratic  .  .  . 
and  then,  finally,  like  a  tocsin,  the  sonorous,  musical 
chiming  of  the  grandfather's  clock  in  the  corner. 

He  found  himself  on  his  feet,  rubbing  his  eyes,  with 
a  mouth  dry  as  paper,  a  thumping  heart,  and  a  vague 
sense  of  emptiness  in  his  middle. 

Had  he  napped  —  slept?  How  long?  .  .  .  He 
stared,  bewildered,  groping  blindly  after  his  wandering 
wits.  . 

The  windows,  that  had  been  black  oblongs  in  the 
illuminated  walls,  were  filled  with  a  cool  and  shapeless 
tone  of  grey.  He  reeled  (rather  than  walked)  to  one 
of  them  and  looked  out. 

The  street  below  was  vacant,  desolate  and  uncannily 
silent,  showing  a  harsh,  unlovely  countenance  like 
the  jaded  mask  of  some  sodden  reveller,  with  bleary 


174  THE    BANDBOX 

street-lamps  for  eyes  —  all  mean  and  garish  in  the 
chilly  dusk  that  foreruns  dawn. 

Hastily  Staff  consulted  his  watch. 

Four  o'clock! 

It  occurred  to  him  that  the  watch  needed  winding, 
and  he  stood  for  several  seconds  twisting  the  stem- 
crown  between  thumb  and  forefinger  while  stupidly 
comprehending  the  fact  that  he  must  have  been  asleep 
between  two  and  three  hours. 

Abruptly,  in  a  fit  of  witless  agitation,  he  crossed  to 
the  divan,  caught  the  sleeper  by  the  shoulder  and  shook 
him  till  he  wakened  —  till  he  rolled  over  on  his  back, 
grunted  and  opened  one  eye. 

"Look  here!"  said  Staff  in  a  quaver  —  "I  've  been 
asleep! " 

"You've  got  nothing  on  me,  then,"  retorted  Iff  with 
pardonable  asperity.  "All  the  same  —  congratulations. 
Good  night." 

He  attempted  to  turn  over  again,  but  was  restrained 
by  Staff's  imperative  hand. 

"It 's  four  o'clock,  and  after!" 

"I  admit  it.  You  might  be  good  enough  to  leave  a 
call  for  me  for  eleven." 

"But  —  damn  it,  man!  —  that  cab  has  n't  come  — " 

"I  can't  help  that,  can  I?" 

"I  'm  afraid  something  has  happened  to  that  girl." 


A    LIKELY    STORY  175 

"Well,  it 's  too  late  to  prevent  it  now  —  if  so." 

"Good  God!  Have  you  no  heart,  man?"  Staff 
began  to  stride  distractedly  up  and  down  the  room. 
"What  am  I  to  do?"  he  groaned  aloud. 

"Take  unkie's  advice  and  go  bye-bye,"  suggested 
Iff.  "Otherwise  I  'd  be  obliged  if  you  'd  rehearse  that 
turn  in  the  other  room.  I  'm  going  to  sleep  if  I  have  to 
brain  you  to  get  quiet." 

Staff  stopped  as  if  somebody  had  slapped  him:  the 
telephone  bell  was  ringing  again. 

He  flung  himself  across  the  room,  dropped  heavily 
into  the  chair  and  snatched  up  the  receiver. 

A  man's  voice  stammered  drowsily  his  number. 

"Yes,"  he  almost  shouted.  "Yes  — Mr.  Staff  at 
the  'phone.  Who  wants  me?" 

"Hold  the  wire." 

He  heard  a  buzzing,  a  click;  then  silence;  a  pro 
longed  brrrrp  and  another  click. 

"Hello?"  he  called.    "Hello?" 

His  heart  jumped:  the  voice  was  Miss  Searle's. 

"Mr.  Staff?" 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  detect  a  tremor  in  her 
accents,  as  if  she  were  both  weary  and  frightened. 

"Yes,  Miss  Searle.    What  is  it?" 

"I  wanted  to  reassure  you  —  I've  had  a  terrible 
experience,  but  I  'm  all  right  now  —  safe.  I  started  — " 


176  THE    BANDBOX 

Her  voice  ceased  to  vibrate  over  the  wires  as  suddenly 
as  if  those  same  wires  had  been  cut. 

"Yes?"  he  cried  after  an  instant.  "Yes,  Miss 
Searle?  Hello,  hello!" 

There  was  no  answer.  Listening  with  every  faculty 
at  high  tension,  he  fancied  that  he  detected  a  faint, 
abrupt  sound,  like  a  muffled  sob.  On  the  heels  of  it 
came  a  click  and  the  connection  was  broken. 

In  his  anxiety  and  consternation  he  swore  violently. 

"Well,  what 's  the  trouble?" 

Iff  stood  at  his  side,  now  wide-awake  and  quick  with 
interest.  Hastily  Staff  explained  what  had  happened. 

"Yes,"  nodded  the  little  man.  "Yes,  that  Jd  be  the 
way  of  it.  She  had  trouble,  but  managed  to  get  to  the 
telephone;  then  somebody  grabbed  her — " 

Somebody !    Who  ?  "  Staff  demanded  unreasonably. 

"  I  don't  really  know  —  honest  Injun !  But  there 's 
a  smell  of  garlic  about  it,  just  the  same." 

"Smell  of  garlic!    Are  you  mad?" 

"Tush!"  said  Mr.  Iff  contemptuously.  "I  referred 
poetically  to  the  fine  Italian  hand  of  Cousin  Arbuthnot 
Ismay.  Now  if  I  were  you,  I  'd  agitate  that  hook  until 
Central  answers,  and  then  ask  for  the  manager  and  see 
if  he  can  trace  that  call  back  to  its  source.  It  ought  n't 
to  be  difficult  at  this  hour,  when  the  telephone  service 
is  at  its  slackest." 


lie  iancied  that  be  detected  a  faint,  abrupt  sound,  like  a 
muffled  sob 

Pa<je  176 


X 

DEAD  O*    NIGHT 

(ENEATH  a  nature  so  superficially  shallow  that 
it  shone  only  with  the  reflected  lustre  of  the  more 
brilliant  personalities  to  which  it  was  attracted,  Mrs. 
Ilkington  had  a  heart  —  sentiment  and  a  capacity  for 
sympathetic  affection.  She  had  met  Eleanor  Searle  in 
Paris,  and  knew  a  little  more  than  something  of  the 
struggle  the  girl  had  been  making  to  prepare  herself 
for  the  operatic  stage.  She  managed  to  discover  that 
she  had  no  close  friends  in  New  York,  and  shrewdly 
surmised  that  she  was  n't  any  too  well  provided  with 
munitions  of  war  —  in  the  shape  of  money  —  for  her 
contemplated  campaign  against  the  army  of  professional 
people,  marshalled  by  indifferent-minded  managers, 
which  stood  between  her  and  the  place  she  coveted. 

Considering  all  this,  Mrs.  Ilkington  had  suggested, 
with  an  accent  of  insistence,  that  Eleanor  should  go 
to  the  hotel  which  she  intended  to  patronise  —  wording 
her  suggestion  so  cunningly  that  it  would  be  an  easy 
matter  for  her,  when  the  time  came,  to  demonstrate 

177 


178  THE    BANDBOX 

that  she  had  invited  the  girl  to  be  her  guest.  And  with 
this  she  was  thoughtful  enough  to  select  an  unpreten 
tious  if  thoroughly  well-managed  house  on  the  West 
Side,  in  the  late  Seventies,  in  order  that  Eleanor  might 
feel  at  ease  and  not  worry  about  the  size  of  the  bill 
which  she  was  n't  to  be  permitted  to  pay. 

Accordingly  the  two  ladies  (with  Mr.  Bangs  tagging) 
went  from  the  pier  directly  to  the  St.  Simon,  the 
elder  woman  to  stay  until  her  town-house  could  be 
opened  and  put  in  order,  the  girl  while  she  looked  round 
for  a  spinster's  studio  or  a  small  apartment  within 
her  limited  means. 

Promptly  on  their  arrival  at  the  hotel,  Mrs.  Ilkington 
began  to  run  up  a  telephone  bill,  notifying  friends  of 
her  whereabouts;  with  the  result  (typical  of  the  New 
York  idea)  that  within  an  hour  she  had  engaged  her 
self  for  a  dinner  with  theatre  and  supper  to  follow  — 
and,  of  course,  had  managed  to  have  Eleanor  included 
in  the  invitation.  She  was  one  of  those  women  who 
live  on  their  nerves  and  apparently  thrive  on  excite 
ment,  ignorant  of  the  meaning  of  rest  save  in  association 
with  those  rest-cure  sanatoriums  to  which  they  repair 
for  a  fortnight  semi-annually  —  or  oftener. 

Against  her  protests,  then,  Eleanor  was  dragged  out 
in  full  dress  when  what  she  really  wanted  to  do  was  to 
eat  a  light  and  simple  meal  and  go  early  to  bed.  In 


DEAD    O'    NIGHT  179 

not  unnatural  consequence  she  found  herself,  when  they 
got  home  after  one  in  the  morning,  in  a  state  of  nervous 
disquiet  caused  by  the  strain  of  keeping  herself  keyed  up 
to  the  pitch  of  an  animated  party. 

Insomnia  stared  her  in  the  face  with  its  blind,  blank 
eyes.  In  the  privacy  of  her  own  room,  she  expressed  a 
free  opinion  of  her  countrymen,  conceiving  them  all  in 
the  guise  of  fevered,  unquiet  souls  cast  in  the  mould  of 
Mrs.  Ilkington. 

Diverting  herself  of  her  dinner-gown,  she  slipped 
into  a  negligee  and  looked  round  for  a  book,  meaning 
to  read  herself  sleepy.  In  the  course  of  her  search  she 
happened  to  recognise  her  bandbox  and  conceive  a 
desire  to  reassure  herself  as  to  the  becomingness  of  its 
contents. 

The  hat  she  found  therein  was  becoming  enough, 
even  if  it  was  n't  hers.  The  mistake  was  easily  ap 
parent  and  excusable,  considering  the  confusion  that 
had  obtained  on  the  pier  at  the  time  of  their  departure. 

She  wondered  when  Staff  would  learn  the  secret  of 
his  besetting  mystery,  and  wondered  too  why  Alison 
had  wished  to  make  a  mystery  of  it.  The  joke  was  hardly 
apparent  —  though  one's  sense  of  American  humour 
might  well  have  become  dulled  in  several  years  of 
residence  abroad. 

Meanwhile,  instinctively,  Eleanor  was  trying  on  the 


180  THE    BANDBOX 

hat  before  the  long  mirror  set  in  the  door  of  the  closet. 
She  admitted  to  herself  that  she  looked  astonishingly 
well  in  it.  She  was  a  sane  and  sensible  young  woman, 
who  knew  that  she  was  exceedingly  good  looking  and 
was  glad  of  it  in  the  same  wholesome  way  that  she  was 
glad  she  had  a  good  singing  voice.  Very  probably  the 
hat  was  more  of  a  piece  with  the  somewhat  flamboyant 
if  unimpeachable  loveliness  of  Alison  Landis;  but  it 
would  seem  hard  to  find  a  hat  better  suited  to  set  off 
the  handsome,  tall  and  slightly  pale  girl  that  confronted 
Eleanor  in  the  mirror. 

It  seemed  surprisingly  heavy,  even  for  a  hat  of  its 
tremendous  size.  She  was  of  the  opinion  that  it  would 
make  her  head  ache  to  wear  it  for  many  hours  at  a 
time.  She  was  puzzled  by  its  weight  and  speculated 
vaguely  about  it  until,  lifting  it  carefully  off,  her  fingers 
encountered  something  hard,  heavy  and  unyielding 
between  the  lining  and  the  crown.  After  that  it  did  n't 
take  her  long  to  discover  that  the  lining  had  been  ripped 
open  and  resewn  with  every  indication  of  careless  haste. 
Human  curiosity  did  the  rest.  Within  a  very  few  min 
utes  the  Cadogan  collar  lay  in  her  hands  and  she  was 
marvelling  over  it  —  and  hazily  surmising  the  truth: 
Staff  had  been  used  as  a  blind  agent  to  get  the  pearls 
into  the  country  duty-free. 

Quick  thoughts  ran  riot  in  Eleanor's  mind.    Alison 


DEAD    O'    NIGHT  181 

Landis  would  certainly  not  delay  longer  than  a  few 
hours  before  demanding  her  hat  of  Mr.  Staff.  The 
substitution  would  then  be  discovered  and  she,  Eleanor 
Searle,  would  fall  under  suspicion  —  at  least,  unless 
she  took  immediate  steps  to  restore  the  jewels. 

She  acted  hastily,  on  impulse.  One  minute  she  was 
at  the  telephone,  ordering  a  taxicab,  the  next  she  was 
hurriedly  dressing  herself  in  a  tailor-made  suit.  The 
hour  was  late,  but  not  too  late  —  although  (this  gave 
her  pause)  it  might  be  too  late  before  she  could  reach 
Staff's  rooms.  She  had  much  better  telephone  him  she 
was  coming.  Of  course  he  would  have  a  telephone  — 
everybody  has,  in  New  York. 

Consultation  of  the  directory  confirmed  this  assump 
tion,  giving  her  both  his  address  and  his  telephone 
number.  But  before  she  could  call  up,  her  cab  was 
announced.  Nevertheless  she  delayed  long  enough  to 
warn  him  hastily  of  her  coming.  Then  she  snatched 
up  the  necklace,  dropped  it  into  her  handbag,  replaced 
the  hat  in  its  bandbox  and  ran  for  the  elevator. 

It  was  almost  half-past  one  by  the  clock  behind  the 
desk,  when  she  passed  through  the  office.  She  had  really 
not  thought  it  so  late.  She  was  conscious  of  the  surprised 
looks  of  the  clerks  and  pages.  The  porter  at  the  door, 
too,  had  a  stare  for  her  so  long  and  frank  as  to  approach 
impertinence.  None  the  less  he  was  quick  enough  to 


182  THE    BANDBOX 

take  her  bandbox  from  the  bellboy  who  carried  it  and 
place  it  in  the  waiting  taxi,  and  handed  her  in  after  it 
with  civil  care.  Having  repeated  to  the  operator  the 
address  she  gave  him,  the  porter  shut  the  door  and  went 
back  to  his  post  as  the  vehicle  darted  out  from  the 
curb. 

Eleanor  knew  little  of  New  York  geography.  Her 
previous  visits  to  the  city  had  been  very  few  and  of 
short  duration.  With  the  shopping  district  she  wa* 
tolerably  familiar,  and  she  knew  something  of  the 
district  roundabout  the  old  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel  and 
the  vanished  Everett  House.  But  with  these  excep 
tions  she  was  entirely  ignorant  of  the  lay  of  the  land : 
just  as  she  was  too  inexperienced  to  realise  that  it  is  n't 
considered  wholly  well-advised  for  a  young  woman 
alone  to  take,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  a  taxicab 
.whose  chauffeur  carries  a  companion  on  the  front  seat. 
If  she  had  stopped  to  consider  this  circumstance  at  all, 
she  would  have  felt  comforted  by  the  presence  of  the 
superfluous  man,  on  the  general  principle  that  two 
protectors  are  better  then  one:  but  the  plain  truth 
is  that  she  did  n't  stop  to  consider  it,  her  thoughts 
being  fully  engaged  with  what  seemed  more  important 
matters. 

The  cab  bounced  across  Amsterdam  Avenue,  slid 
smoothly  over  to  Columbus,  ran  for  a  block  or  so 


183 

beneath  the  elevated  structure  and  swung  into  Seventy- 
seventh  Street,  through  which  it  pelted  eastward  and 
into  Central  Park.  Then  for  some  moments  it  turned 
and  twisted  through  the  devious  driveways,  in  a 
fashion  so  erratic  that  the  passenger  lost  all  grasp  of 
her  whereabouts,  retaining  no  more  than  a  confused 
impression  of  serpentine,  tree-lined  ways,  chequered 
with  lamplight  and  the  soft,  dense  shadows  of  foliage, 
and  regularly  spaced  with  staring  electric  arcs. 

The  night  had  fallen  black  beneath  an  overcast  sky; 
the  air  that  fanned  her  face  was  warm  and  heavy 
with  humidity;  what  little  breeze  there  was,  aside 
from  that  created  by  the  motion  of  the  cab,  bore 
on  its  leaden  wings  the  scent  of  rain. 

A  vague  uneasiness  began  to  colour  the  girl's  con 
sciousness.  She  grew  increasingly  sensitive  to  the 
ominous  quiet  of  the  hour  and  place:  the  stark,  dark 
stillness  of  the  shrouded  coppices  and  thickets,  the 
emptiness  of  the  paths.  Once  only  she  caught  sight 
of  a  civilian,  strolling  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  coat  over  his 
arm,  hat  in  hand;  and  once  only  she  detected,  at  a 
distance,  the  grey  of  a  policeman's  tunic,  half  blotted 
out  by  the  shadow  in  which  its  wearer  lounged  at  ease. 

And  that  was  far  behind  when,  abruptly,  with  a 
grinding  crash  of  brakes,  the  cab  came  from  full 
headlong  tilt  to  a  dead  halt  within  twice  its  length. 


184  THE    BANDBOX 

She  pitched  forward  from  the  seat  with  a  cry  of  alarm, 
only  saving  herself  a  serious  bruising  through  the  in 
stinct  that  led  her  to  thrust  out  her  hands  and  catch 
the  frame  of  the  forward  windows. 

Before  she  could  recover,  the  chauffeur's  companion 
had  jumped  out  and  run  ahead,  pausing  in  front  of  the 
hood  to  stoop  and  stare.  In  another  moment  he  was 
back  with  a  report  couched  in  a  technical  jargon  un 
intelligible  to  her  understanding.  She  caught  the 
words  "stripped  the  gears"  and  from  them  inferred 
the  irremediable. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked  anxiously,  bending 
forward. 

The  chauffeur  turned  his  head  and  replied  in  a  surly 
tone:  "We've  broken  down,  ma'm.  You  can't  go 
no  farther  in  this  cab.  I  '11  have  to  get  another  to  tow 
us  back  to  the  garage." 

"  Oh,"  she  cried  in  dismay,  "  how  unfortunate !  What 
am  I  to  do?" 

"  Guess  you  '11  have  to  get  out  V  walk  back  to  Cen 
tral  Park  West,"  was  the  answer.  "You  c'n  get  a  car 
there  to  C'lumbus  Circle.  You  '11  find  a-plenty  taxis 
down  there." 

"You  're  quite  sure — "  she  began  to  protest. 

"Ah,  they  ain't  no  chanst  of  this  car  going  another 
foot  under  its  own  power  —  not  until  it 's  been  a  week 


DEAD    O'    NIGHT  185 

'r  two  in  hospital.  The  only  thing  for  you  to  do  's 
to  hoof  it,  like  I  said." 

"That's  dead  right,"  averred  the  other  man.  He 
was  standing  beside  the  body  of  the  cab  and  now  un 
latched  the  door  and  held  it  open  for  her.  "  You  might 
as  well  get  down,  if  you  're  in  any  great  hurry,  ma'm." 

Eleanor  rose,  eyeing  the  man  distrustfully.  His 
accent  was  n't  that  of  the  kind  of  man  who  is  accus 
tomed  to  saying  "ma'm."  His  back  was  toward  the 
nearest  lamp  post,  his  face  in  shadow.  She  gained  no 
more  than  a  dim  impression  of  a  short,  slender  figure 
masked  in  a  grey  duster  buttoned  to  the  throat,  and, 
above  it,  a  face  rendered  indefinite  by  a  short,  pointed 
beard  and  a  grey  motor-cap  pulled  well  down  over 
the  eyes.  .  .  . 

But  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  accept  the  situa 
tion.  An  accident  was  an  accident  —  unpleasant  but 
irreparable.  There  was  no  alternative;  she  could  do 
nothing  but  adopt  the  chauffeur's  suggestion.  She 
stepped  out,  turning  back  to  get  her  bandbox. 

"Beg  pardon,  ma'm.    I  '11  get  that  for  you." 

The  man  by  the  door  interposed  an  arm  between 
Eleanor  and  the  bandbox. 

She  said,  "Oh  no!"  and  attempted  to  push  past  his 
arm. 

Immediately  he  caught  her  by  the  shoulder  and 


186  THE    BANDBOX 

thrust  her  away  with  staggering  violence.  She  reeled 
back  half  a  dozen  feet.  Simultaneously  she  heard  the 
fellow  say,  sharply:  /'All  right  —  go  ahead!"  and 
saw  him  jump  upon  the  step.  On  the  instant,  the  cab 
shot  away  through  the  shadows,  the  door  swinging 
wide  while  Eleanor's  assailant  scrambled  into  the  body. 

Before  she  could  collect  herself  the  car  had  dis 
appeared  round  a  curve  in  the  roadway. 

Her  natural  impulse  was  to  scream,  to  start  a  hue- 
and-cry:  "Stop  thief!"  But  the  strong  element  of 
common-sense  in  her  make-up  counselled  her  to  hold 
her  tongue.  In  a  trice  she  comprehended  precisely 
the  meaning  of  the  passage.  Somebody  else  —  some 
body  aside  from  herself,  Staff  and  Alison  Landis  — 
knew  the  secret  of  the  bandbox  and  the  smuggled 
necklace,  and  with  astonishing  intuition  had  planned 
this  trap  to  gain  possession  of  it.  She  was  amazed 
to  contemplate  the  penetrating  powers  of  inference 
and  deduction,  the  cunning  and  resource  which  had 
not  only  in  so  short  a  time  fathomed  the  mystery  of 
the  vanished  necklace,  but  had  discovered  the  exchange 
of  bandboxes,  had  traced  the  right  one  to  her  hotel 
and  possession,  had  divined  and  taken  advantage  of 
her  impulse  to  return  the  property  to  its  rightful  owner 
without  an  instant's  loss  of  time.  And  with  this 
thought  came  another,  more  alarming:  in  a  brace  of 


DEAD    O'    NIGHT  187 

minutes  the  thieves  would  discover  that  the  necklace 
had  been  abstracted  from  the  hat  and  —  men  of  such 
boldness  would  n't  hesitate  about  turning  back  to 
run  her  down  and  take  their  booty  by  force. 

It  was  this  consideration  that  bade  her  refrain  from 
crying  out.  Conceivably,  if  she  did  raise  an  alarm, 
help  might  be  longer  in  coming  than  the  taxicab  in 
returning.  They  had  the  hat  and  bandbox,  and  were 
welcome  to  them,  for  all  of  her,  as  long  as  she  retained 
the  real  valuables.  Her  only  chance  lay  in  instant  and 
secret  flight,  in  hiding  herself  away  in  the  gloomy  fast 
nesses  of  these  unknown  pleasure-grounds,  so  securely 
that  they  might  not  find  her. 

She  stood  alone  in  the  middle  of  a  broad  road.  There 
was  nobody  in  sight,  whichever  way  she  looked.  On 
one  hand  a  wide  asphalt  path  ran  parallel  with  the 
drive;  on  the  other  lay  a  darksome  hedge  of  trees  and 
shrubbery.  She  hesitated  not  two  seconds  over  her 
choice,  and  in  a  third  was  struggling  and  forcing  a  way 
through  the  undergrowth  and  beneath  the  low  and 
spreading  branches  whose  shadows  cloaked  her  with 
a  friendly  curtain  of  blackness. 

Beyond  —  she  was  not  long  in  winning  through  — 
lay  a  broad  meadow,  glimmering  faintly  in  the  glow 
of  light  reflected  from  the  bosoms  of  low,  slow-moving 
clouds.  A  line  of  trees  bordered  it  at  a  considerable 


188  THE    BANDBOX 

distance;  beneath  them  were  visible  patches  of  asphalt 
walk,  shining  coldly  under  electric  arcs. 

Having  absolutely  no  notion  whatever  of  where  she 
was  in  the  Park,  after  some  little  hesitation  she  de 
cided  against  attempting  to  cross  the  lawn  and  turned 
instead,  at  random,  to  her  right,  stumbling  away  in 
the  kindly  penumbra  of  trees. 

She  thanked  her  stars  that  she  had  chosen  to  wear 
this  dark,  short-skirted  suit  that  gave  her  so  much  free 
dom  of  action  and  at  the  same  time  blended  so  well 
with  the  shadows  wherein  she  must  skulk.  .  .  . 

Before  many  minutes  she  received  confirmation  of 
her  fears  in  the  drone  of  a  distant  motor  humming 
in  the  stillness  and  gaining  volume  with  every  beat 
of  her  heart.  Presently  it  was  strident  and  near  at 
hand;  and  then,  standing  like  a  frozen  thing,  not 
daring  to  stir  (indeed,  half  petrified  with  fear)  she 
saw  the  marauding  taxicab  wheel  slowly  past,  the 
chauffeur  scrutinising  one  side  of  the  way,  the  man 
in  the  grey  duster  standing  up  in  the  body  and  hold 
ing  the  door  half  open,  while  he  raked  with  sweeping 
glances  the  coppice  wherein  she  stood  hiding. 

But  it  did  not  stop.  Incredible  though  it  seemed, 
she  was  not  detected.  Obviously  the  men  were  at  a 
loss,  unable  to  surmise  which  one  she  had  chosen  of 
a  dozen  ways  of  escape.  The  taxicab  drilled  on  at  a 


189 

snail's  pace  for  some  distance  up  the  drive,  then  swung 
round  and  came  back  at  a  good  speed.  As  it  passed 
her  for  the  second  time  she  could  hear  one  of  its  crew 
swearing  angrily. 

Again  the  song  of  the  motor  died  in  the  distance, 
and  again  she  found  courage  to  move.  But  which  way? 
How  soonest  to  win  out  of  this  strange,  bewildering 
maze  of  drives  and  paths,  crossing  and  recrossing, 
melting  together  and  diverging  without  apparent 
motive  or  design? 

She  advanced  to  the  edge  of  the  drive,  paused, 
listening  with  every  faculty  alert.  There  was  no  sound 
but  the  muted  soughing  of  the  night  wind  in  the  trees 
—  not  a  footfall,  not  the  clap  of  a  hoof  or  the  echo 
of  a  motor's  whine.  She  moved  on  a  yard  or  two,  and 
found  herself  suddenly  in  the  harsh  glare  of  an  arc- 
lamp.  This  decided  her;  she  might  as  well  go  for 
ward  as  retreat,  now  that  she  had  shown  herself. 
She  darted  at  a  run  across  the  road  and  gained  the 
paved  path,  paused  an  instant,  heard  nothing,  and  ran 
on  until  forced  to  stop  for  breath. 

And  still  no  sign  of  pursuit!  She  began  to  feel  a 
little  reassured,  and  after  a  brief  rest  went  on  aim 
lessly,  writh  the  single  intention  of  sticking  to  one 
walk  as  far  as  it  might  lead  her,  in  the  hope  that  it 
might  lead  her  to  the  outskirts  of  the  Park.  / 


190  THE    BANDBOX 

Vain  hope!  Within  a  short  time  she  found  herself 
scrambling  over  bare  rocks,  with  shrubbery  on  either 
hand  and  a  looming  mass  of  masonry  stencilled  against 
the  sky  ahead.  This  surely  could  not  be  the  way. 
She  turned  back,  lost  herself,  half  stumbled  and  half 
fell  down  a  sharp  slope,  plodded  across  another 
lawn  and  found  another  path,  which  led  her  north 
wards  (though  she  had  no  means  of  knowing  this). 
In  time  it  crossed  one  of  the  main  drives,  then  recrossed. 
She  followed  it  with  patient  persistence,  hoping,  but 
desperately  weary. 

Now  and  again  she  passed  benches  upon  which 
men  sprawled  in  crude,  uneasy  attitudes,  as  a  rule 
snoring  noisily.  She  dared  not  ask  her  way  of  these. 
Once  one  roused  to  the  sharp  tapping  of  her  heels, 
stared  insolently  and,  as  she  passed,  spoke  to  her 
in  a  thick,  rough  voice.  She  did  not  understand  what 
he  said,  but  quickened  her  pace  and  held  on  bravely, 
with  her  head  high  and  her  heart  in  her  mouth. 
Mercifully,  she  was  not  followed. 

Again  —  and  not  once  but  a  number  of  times  — 
the  sound  of  a  motor  drove  her  from  the  path  to  the 
safe  obscurity  of  the  trees  and  undergrowth.  But 
in  every  such  instance  her  apprehensions  were  without 
foundation;  the  machines  were  mostly  touring-cars  or 
limousines  beating  homeward  from  some  late  festivity. 


DEAD    O'    NIGHT  191 

And  twice  she  thought  to  descry  at  a  distance  the 
grey-coated  figure  of  a  policeman;  but  each  time, 
when  she  had  gained  the  spot,  the  man  had  vanished 
—  or  else  some  phenomenon  of  light  and  shadow  had 
misled  her. 

Minutes,  in  themselves  seemingly  endless,  ran  into 
hours  while  she  wandered  (so  heavy  with  fatigue  that 
she  found  herself  wondering  how  it  was  that  she  did  n't 
collapse  from  sheer  exhaustion  on  any  one  of  the  in 
terminable  array  of  benches  that  she  passed)  dragging 
her  leaden  feet  and  aching  limbs  and  struggling  to 
hold  up  her  hot  and  throbbing  head. 

It  was  long  after  three  when  finally  she  emerged 
at  One-hundred-and-tenth  Street  and  Lenox  Avenue. 
And  here  fortune  proved  more  kind:  she  blundered 
blindly  almost  into  the  arms  of  a  policeman,  stum 
bled  through  her  brief  story  and  dragged  wearily  on 
his  arm  over  to  Central  Park  West.  Here  he  put 
her  aboard  a  southbound  Eighth  Avenue  surface-car, 
instructing  the  conductor  where  she  was  to  get  off 
and  then  presumably  used  the  telephone  on  his  beat 
to  such  effect  that  she  was  met  on  alighting  by  an 
other  man  in  uniform  who  escorted  her  to  the  St. 
Simon.  She  was  too  tired,  too  thoroughly  worn 
out,  to  ask  him  how  it  happened  that  he  was  waiting 
for  her,  or  even  to  do  more  than  give  him  a  bare  word 


192  THE    BANDBOX 

of  thanks.  As  for  complaining  of  her  adventure  to 
the  night-clerk  (who  stared  as  she  passed  through  to 
the  elevator)  no  imaginable  consideration  could  have 
induced  her  to  stop  for  any  such  purpose. 

But  one  thing  was  clear  to  her  intelligence,  to  be 
attended  to  before  she  toppled  over  on  her  bed:  Staff 
must  be  warned  by  telephone  of  the  attempt  to  steal 
the  necklace  and  the  reason  why  she  had  not  been 
able  to  reach  his  residence.  And  if  this  were  to  be 
accomplished,  she  must  do  it  before  she  dared  sit 
down. 

In  conformance  with  this  fixed  idea,  she  turned 
directly  to  the  telephone  after  closing  the  door  of  her 
room  —  pausing  neither  to  strip  off  her  gloves  and 
remove  her  hat  nor  even  to  relieve  her  aching  wrist 
of  the  handbag  which,  with  its  precious  contents, 
dangled  on  its  silken  thong. 

She  had  to  refresh  her  memory  with  a  consulta 
tion  of  the  directory  before  she  could  ask  for  Staff's 
number. 

The  switchboard  operator  was  slow  to  answer;  and 
when  he  did,  there  followed  one  of  those  exasperating 
delays,  apparently  so  inexcusable.  .  .  . 

She  experienced  a  sensation  of  faintness  and  dizzi 
ness;  her  limbs  were  trembling;  she  felt  as  though 
sleep  were  overcoming  her  as  she  stood;  but  a  little 


Fascinated,  dumb  with  terror,  she  watched 

Page  193 


DEAD    O'    NIGHT  193 

more  and  she  had  strained  endurance  to  the  breaking- 
point.  .  .  . 

At  length  the  connection  was  made.  Staff's  agitated 
voice  seemed  drawn  thin  by  an  immense  distance. 
By  a  supreme  effort  she  managed  to  spur  her  flagging 
faculties  and  began  to  falter  her  incredible  story,  but 
had  barely  swung  into  the  second  sentence  when  her 
voice  died  in  her  throat  and  her  tongue  clave  to  the 
roof  of  her  mouth. 

The  telephone  instrument  was  fixed  to  the  wall  near 
the  clothes-closet,  the  door  of  which  framed  a  long 
mirror.  This  door,  standing  slightly  ajar,  reflected 
to  her  vision  the  hall  door. 

She  had  detected  a  movement  in  the  mirror.  The 
hall  door  was  opening  —  slowly,  gently,  noiselessly, 
inch  by  inch.  Fascinated,  dumb  with  terror,  she 
watched.  She  saw  the  hand  that  held  the  knob  —  a 
small  hand,  thin  and  fragile;  then  the  wrist,  then  part 
of  the  arm.  ...  A  head  appeared  in  the  opening, 
curiously  suggesting  the  head  of  a  bird,  thinly  thatched 
with  hair  of  a  faded  yellow;  out  of  its  face,  small 
eyes  watched  her,  steadfastly  inquisitive. 

Almost  mechanically  she  replaced  the  receiver  on  the 
hook  and  turned  away  from  the  wall,  stretching  forth 
her  hands  in  a  gesture  of  pitiful  supplication.  .  .  . 


XI 

THE  COLD  GREY  DAWN 

"TT7ELL?"  snapped  Iff  irritably.    "What 're  you 

W     staring  at?" 

"  You,"  Staff  replied  calmly.    "  I  was  thinking  —  " 

"About  me?    What?" 

"Merely  that  you  are  apparently  as  much  cut  up 
as  if  the  necklace  were  yours  —  as  if  you  were  in  danger 
of  being  robbed,  instead  of  Miss  Landis  —  by  way  of 
Miss  Searle." 

"And  I  am!"  asserted  Iff  vigorously.  "I  am,  damn 
it!  I  'm  in  no  danger  of  losing  any  necklace;  but  if 
he  gets  away  with  the  goods,  that  infernal  scoundrel 
will  manage  some  way  to  implicate  me  and  rob  me 
of  my  good  name  and  my  liberty  as  well.  Hell!" 
he  exploded  —  "  seems  to  me  I  'm  entitled  to  be 
excited ! " 

Staff's  Unspoken  comment  was  that  this  explanation 
of  the  little  man's  agitation  was  something  strained 
and  inconclusive:  unsatisfactory  at  best.  It  was  not 
apparent  how  (even  assuming  the  historical  Mr.  Ismay 
to  be  at  that  moment  stealing  the  Cadogan  collar 

194 


from  Miss  Searle)  the  crime  could  be  fastened  on  Mr. 
Iff,  in  the  face  of  the  positive  alibi  Staff  could 
furnish  him.  On  the  other  hand,  it  was  indubitable 
that  Iff  believed  himself  endangered  in  some  mys 
terious  way,  or  had  some  other  and  still  more  secret 
cause  for  disquiet.  For  his  uneasiness  was  so  mani 
fest,  in  such  sharp  contrast  with  his  habitual,  semi- 
cynical  repose,  that  even  he  had  n't  attempted  to 
deny  it. 

With  a  shrug  Staff  turned  back  to  the  telephone 
and  asked  for  the  manager  of  the  exchange,  explained 
his  predicament  and  was  promised  that,  if  the  call 
could  be  traced  back  to  the  original  station,  he  should 
have  the  number.  He  was,  however,  counselled  to  be 
patient.  Such  a  search  would  take  time,  quite  possibly 
and  very  probably. 

He  explained  this  to  Iff,  whose  disgust  was  ill- 
disguised. 

"And  meanwhile,"  he  expostulated,  "we're  sitting 
here  with  our  hands  in  our  laps  —  useless  —  and 
Ismay,  as  like  's  not,  is  — "  He  broke  into  profanity, 
trotting  up  and  down  and  twisting  his  small  hands 
together. 

"I  wish,"  said  Staff,  "I  knew  what  makes  you  act 
this  way.  Ismay  can't  saddle  you  with  a  crime  com 
mitted  by  him  when  you  're  in  my  company  — " 


196  THE    BANDBOX 

"You  don't  know  him,"  interpolated  Iff. 

"  And  you  surely  can't  be  stirred  so  deeply  by  simple 
solicitude  for  Miss  Searle." 

"Oh,  can't  I?  And  how  do  you  know  I  can't?'* 
barked  the  little  man.  "Gwan  —  leave  me  alone! 
I  want  to  think." 

"Best  wishes,"  Staff  told  him  pleasantly.  "I'm 
going  to  change  my  clothes." 

"Symptoms  of  intelligence,"  grunted  Iff.  "I  was 
wondering  when  you  'd  wake  up  to  the  incongruity 
of  knight-erranting  it  after  damsels  in  distress  in  an 
open-faced  get-up  like  that." 

"It's  done,  however,"  argued  Staff  good-humouredly. 
"  It 's  class,  if  the  illustrators  are  to  be  believed. 
Don't  you  ever  read  modern  fiction?  In  emergencies 
like  these  the  hero  always  takes  a  cold  bath  and 
changes  his  clothes  before  sallying  forth  to  put  a 
crimp  in  the  villain's  plans.  Just  the  same  as  me. 
Only  I  'm  going  to  shed  evening  dress  instead  of  — ' 

"Good  heavens,  man!"  snorted  Iff.  "Are  you  in 
training  for  a  monologist's  job?  If  so  —  if  not  — 
anyway  —  can  it!  Can  the  extemporaneous  stuff!" 

The  telephone  bell  silenced  whatever  retort  Staff 
may  have  contemplated.  Both  men  jumped  for  the 
desk,  but  Staff  got  there  first. 

"Hello?"  he  cried,  receiver  at  ear.    "Yes?    Hello?" 


THE  COLD  GREY  DAWN  197 

But  instead  of  the  masculine  accents  of  the  ex 
change-manager  he  heard,  for  the  third  time  that 
night,  the  voice  of  Miss  Searle. 

"Yes,"  he  replied  almost  breathlessly  —  "it  is  I, 
Miss  Searle.  Thank  Heaven  you  called  up!  I've 
been  worrying  silly  — " 

"We  were  cut  off,"  the  girl's  voice  responded.  He 
noted,  subconsciously,  that  she  was  speaking  slowly 
and  carefully,  as  if  with  effort.  .  .  .  "Cut  off,"  she 
repeated  as  by  rote,  "and  I  had  trouble  getting  you 
again." 

"Then  you  're  —  you  're  all  right?" 

"Quite,  thank  you.  I  had  an  unpleasant  experience 
trying  to  get  to  you  by  taxicab.  The  motor  broke 
down  coming  through  Central  Park,  and  I  had  to  walk 
home  and  lost  my  way.  But  I  am  all  right  now  — 
just  tired  out." 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  sincerely.  "It's  too  bad;  I 
was  quite  ready  to  call  for  the  —  you  understand 
—  and  save  you  the  trouble  of  the  trip  down  here. 
But  I  'm  glad  you  've  had  no  more  unpleasant 
adventure." 

"The  necklace  is  safe,"  the  girl's  voice  told  him 
with  the  same  deadly  precision  of  utterance. 

"Oh,  yes;  I  assumed  that.  And  I  may  call  for 
it?" 


198  THE    BANDBOX 

"  If  you  please  —  today  at  noon.  I  am  so  tired  I  am 
afraid  I  shan't  get  up  before  noon." 

"That  '11  be  quite  convenient  to  me,  thank 
you,"  he  assured  her.  "But  where  are  you  stop- 
ping?" 

There  fell  a  brief  pause.  Then  she  said  something 
i  ndistinguishable. 

"Yes?"  he  said.  "Beg  pardon  — I  didn't  get 
that.  A  little  louder  please,  Miss  Searle." 

"The  St.  Regis." 

"Where?"  he  repeated  in  surprise. 

"The  St.  Regis.  I  am  here  with  Mrs.  Ilkington 
—  her  guest.  Good  night,  Mr.  Staff." 

"Good  morning,"  he  laughed;  and  at  once  the  con 
nection  was  severed. 

"And  that's  all  right!"  he  announced  cheerfully, 
swinging  round  to  face  Iff.  "She  was  in  a  taxicab 
accident  and  got  lost  in  Central  Park  —  just  got  home, 
I  infer.  The  necklace  is  safe  and  I  'm  to  call  and  get 
it  at  twelve  o'clock." 

"Where's  she  stopping?"  demanded  Iff,  shaking 
his  little  head  as  though  impatient.  Staff  named  the 
hotel,  and  Iff  fairly  jumped.  "Why  that 's  impos 
sible!"  he  cried.  "She  can't  afford  it." 

"How  do  you  happen  to  know  she  can't?"  enquired 
Staff,  perplexed. 


THE  COLD  GREY  DAWN  199 

Momentarily  Iff  showed  a  face  of  confusion.  "I 
know  a  lot  of  things,"  he  grumbled,  evasively. 

Staff  waited  a  moment,  then  finding  that  the  little 
man  did  n't  purpose  making  any  more  adequate  or 
satisfactory  explanation,  observed:  "It  happens  that 
she  's  Mrs.  Ilkington's  guest,  and  I  fancy  Mrs.  liking- 
ton  can  afford  it  —  unless  you  know  more  about  her, 
too,  than  I  do." 

Iff  shook  his  head,  dissatisfied.  "All  right,"  he 
said  wearily.  "  Now  what  're  you  going  to 
do?" 

"I'm  going  to  try  to  snatch  a  few  hours'  sleep. 
There 's  no  reason  why  I  should  n't,  now,  with  nothing 
to  do  before  noon." 

"Pleasant  dreams,"  said  Iff  sourly,  as  Staff  marched 
off  to  his  bedroom. 

Then  he  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  divan,  hug 
ging  the  dressing-gown  round  him,  scowled  vindictively 
at  nothing  and  began  thoughtfully  to  gnaw  a  bony 
knuckle. 

In  the  other  room,  his  host  was  undressing  with  sur 
prising  speed.  In  spite  of  his  nap,  he  was  still  tremen 
dously  tired;  perhaps  the  reaction  caused  by  Eleanor's 
reassurance  capping  the  climax  of  his  excitement  had 
something  to  do  with  the  sense  of  complete  mental  and 
physical  fatigue  that  swept  over  him  the  instant  his 


200  THE    BANDBOX 

back  rested  upon  the  bed.  Within  two  minutes  he  was 
fast  asleep. 

But  in  the  study  Mr.  Iff  kept  vigil,  biting  his 
knuckles  what  time  he  was  not  depleting  his  host's 
stock  of  cigarettes. 

Daylight  broadened  over  the  city.  The  sun  rose. 
Not  to  be  outdone,  so  did  Mr.  Iff  —  moving  quietly 
round  the  room,  swearing  beneath  his  breath  as  his 
conscience  dictated,  gradually  accumulating  more  and 
more  of  the  articles  of  clothing  which  he  had  so  dis 
dainfully  discarded  some  hours  earlier. 

The  telephone  interrupted  him  somewhat  after  six 
o'clock.  He  answered  it,  assuming  Staff's  identity 
for  the  moment.  When  the  conversation  had  closed, 
he  sat  in  reverie  for  some  minutes,  then  consulted  the 
telephone  book  and  called  two  numbers  in  quick 
succession.  Immediately  thereafter  he  tiptoed  into 
the  bedroom,  assured  himself  that  Staff  was  fast 
asleep  and  proceeded  calmly  to  rifle  that  gentleman's 
pockets,  carefully  placing  what  he  found  in  an 
orderly  array  upon  the  bureau.  In  the  end,  bringing 
to  light  a  plump  bill-fold,  he  concluded  his  investi 
gations. 

The  pigskin  envelope  contained  a  little  less  than 
four-hundred  dollars,  mostly  in  gold  Treasury  certi 
ficates.  Mr.  Iff  helped  himself  generously  and  replaced 


THE  COLD  GREY  DAWN  201 

the  bill-fold.  Then  he  returned  to  the  study,  found 
paper  and  pens  and  wrote  Staff  a  little  note,  which  he 
propped  against  the  mirror  on  the  bedroom  dresser. 
Finally,  filling  one  of  his  pockets  with  cigarettes,  he 
smiled  blandly  and  let  himself  out  of  the  apartment 
and,  subsequently,  of  the  house. 

Staff  slept  on,  sublimely  unconscious,  until  the  sun, 
slipping  round  to  the  south,  splashed  his  face  with 
moulten  gold :  when  he  woke,  fretful  and  sweatf ul.  He 
glanced  at  his  watch  and  got  up  promptly:  the  hour 
approached  eleven.  Diving  into  a  bathrobe,  he  turned 
the  water  on  for  his  bath,  trotted  to  the  front  room 
and  discovered  the  evasion  of  Mr.  Iff.  This,  however, 
failed  to  surprise  him.  Iff  was,  after  all,  not  bound  to- 
sit  tight  until  Staff  gave  him  leave  to  stir. 

He  rang  for  Mrs.  Shultz  and  ordered  breakfast. 
Then  he  bathed  and  began  to  dress.  It  was  during 
this  latter  ceremony  that  he  found  his  pockets  turned 
inside  out  and  their  contents  displayed  upon  his 
bureau. 

This  was  a  shock,  especially  when  he  failed  to  find 
his  bill-fold  at  the  first  sweep.  The  bottom  dropped  out 
of  the  market  for  confidence  in  the  integrity  of  Mr. 
Iff  and  conceit  in  the  perspicacity  of  Mr.  Staff. 
He  saw  instantly  how  flimsy  had  been  the  tissue  of 
falsehood  wherewith  the  soi-disant  Mr.  Iff  had  sought 


202  THE    BANDBOX 

to  cloak  his  duplicity,  how  egregiously  stupid  had  been 
his  readiness  to  swallow  that  extraordinary  yarn.  The 
more  he  considered,  the  more  he  marvelled.  It  sur 
passed  belief  —  his  asininity  did;  at  least  he  wouldn't 
have  believed  he  could  be  so  easily  fooled.  He  felt  like 
kicking  himself — and  longed  unutterably  for  a  chance 
to  kick  his  erstwhile  guest. 

In  the  midst  of  this  transport  he  found  himself 
staring  incredulously  at  the  envelope  on  the  dresser. 
He  snatched  it  up,  tore  it  open  and  removed  three 
pieces  of  white  paper.  Two  of  them  were  crisp  and 
tough  and  engraved  on  one  side  with  jet-black  ink. 
The  third  bore  this  communication: 

"Mr  DEAR  MR.  STAFF: — Your  bill-fold 's  in  your  waist 
coat  pocket,  where  you  left  it  last  night.  It  contained 
$385  when  I  found  it.  It  now  contains  $200.  I  leave 
you  by  way  of  security  Bank  of  England  notes  to  the 
extent  of  £40.  There'll  be  a  bit  of  change,  one  way  or 
the  other  —  I'm  too  hurried  to  calculate  which. 

"  The  exchange  manager  has  just  called  up.  The  inter 
rupted  call  has  been  traced  back  to  the  Hotel  St.  Simon 
in  79th  Street,  W.  I  have  called  the  St.  Regis;  neither 
Miss  Searle  nor  Mrs.  Ilkington  has  registered  there.  I 
have  also  called  the  St.  Simon;  both  ladies  are  there. 
Your  hearing  must  be  defective  —  or  else  Miss  S.  did  n't 
know  where  she  was  at. 

"  I  'm  off  to  line  my  inwards  with  food  and  decorate  my 
outwards  with  purple  and  fine  underlinen.  After  which  I 
purpose  minding  my  own  business  for  a  few  hours  or 


THE  COLD  GREY  DAWN  203 

days,  as  the  circumstances  may  demand.     But  do  not 
grieve  —  I  shall  return  eftsoons  or  thereabouts. 
"  Yours  in  the  interests  of  pure  crime  — 

"WHIFF. 

"  P.  S.  —  And  of  course  neither  of  us  had  the  sense  to 
ask:  If  Miss  S.  was  bound  here  from  the  St.  Regis,  how 
did  her  taxi  manage  to  break  down  in  Central  Park?" 

Prompt  investigation  revealed  the  truth  of  Mr.  Iff 's 
assertion:  the  bill-fold  with  its  remaining  two-hundred 
dollars  was  safely  tucked  away  in  the  waistcoat  pocket. 
Furthermore,  the  two  twenty-pound  notes  were  un 
questionably  genuine.  The  tide  of  Staff's  faith  in 
human  nature  began  again  to  flood;  the  flower  of 
his  self-conceit  flourished  amazingly.  He  surmised 
that  he  was  n't  such  a  bad  little  judge  of  mankind, 
after  all. 

He  breakfasted  with  a  famous  appetite,  untroubled 
by  Iff  s  aspersion  on  his  sense  of  hearing,  which  was 
excellent;  and  he  had  certainly  heard  Miss  Searle 
aright:  she  had  named  the  St.  Regis  not  once,  but 
twice,  and  each  time  with  the  clearest  enunciation. 
He  could  only  attribute  the  mistake  to  her  excitement 
and  fatigue;  people  frequently  make  such  mistakes 
under  unusual  conditions;  if  Miss  Searle  had  wished 
to  deceive  him  as  to  her  whereabouts,  she  needed  only 
to  refrain  from  communicating  with  him  at  all.  And 


204  THE    BANDBOX 

anyway,  he  knew  now  where  to  find  her  and  within  the 
hour  would  have  found  her;  and  then  everything  would 
be  cleared  up. 

He  was  mildly  surprised  at  the  sense  of  pleasant 
satisfaction  with  which  he  looked  forward  to  meeting 
the  girl  again.  He  reminded  himself  not  to  forget  to 
interview  a  manager  or  two  in  her  interests. 

Just  to  make  assurance  doubly  sure,  he  telephoned 
the  St.  Simon  while  waiting  for  Shultz  to  fetch  a  taxi- 
cab.  The  switchboard  operator  at  that  establishment 
replied  in  the  affirmative  to  his  enquiry  as  to  whether 
or  not  Mrs.  Ilkington  and  Miss  Searle  were  registered 
there. 

On  the  top  of  this  he  was  called  up  by  Alison. 

"I  'm  just  starting  out  —  cab  waiting,"  he  told  her 
at  once  — "  to  go  to  Miss  Searle  and  get  your  — 
property." 

"Oh,  you  are?"  she  returned  in  what  he  thought  a 
singular  tone. 

"Yes;    she  called  me  up  last  night  —  said  she'd 
discovered  the  mistake  and  the  —  ah  —  property  - 
asked  me  to  call  today  at  noon." 

There  was  no  necessity  that  he  could  see  of  detail 
ing  the  whole  long  story  over  a  telephone  wire. 

"Well,"  said  Alison  after  a  little  pause,  "I  don't 
want  to  interfere  with  your  amusements,  but  .  .  . 


THE  COLD  GREY  DAWN  205 

I  've  something  very  particular  to  say  to  you.  I  wish 
you  'd  stop  here  on  your  way  up-town." 

"Why,  certainly,"  he  agreed  without  hesitation  or 
apprehension. 

The  actress  had  put  up,  in  accordance  with  her 
custom,  at  a  handsome,  expensive  and  world-famous 
hotel  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  Staff's  rooms. 
Consequently  he  found  himself  in  her  presence  within 
fifteen  minutes  from  the  end  of  their  talk  by  tele 
phone. 

Dressed  for  the  street  and  looking  uncommonly 
handsome,  she  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  sitting-room 
of  her  suite.  As  he  entered,  she  came  forward  and 
gave  him  a  cool  little  hand  and  a  greeting  as  cool.  He 
received  both  with  an  imperturbability  founded  (he 
discovered  to  his  great  surprise)  on  solid  indifference. 
It  was  hard  to  realise  that  he  no  longer  cared  for  her, 
or  whether  she  were  pleased  or  displeased  with  him. 
But  he  didn't.  He  concluded,  not  without  profound 
amazement,  that  his  passion  for  her  which  had  burned 
so  long  and  brightly  had  been  no  more  than  senti 
mental  incandescence.  And  he  began  to  think  himself 
a  very  devil  of  a  fellow,  who  could  toy  with  the 
love  of  women  with  such  complete  insouciance,  whc* 
could  off  with  the  old  love  before  he  had  found  a  new 
and  care  not  a  rap!  .  .  . 


206  THE    BANDBOX 

Throughout  this  self-analysis  he  was  mouthing 
commonplaces  —  assuring  her  that  the  day  was  fine, 
that  he  had  never  felt  better,  that  she  was  looking 
her  charming  best.  Of  a  sudden  his  vision  compre 
hended  an  article  which  adorned  the  centre-table;  and 
words  forsook  him  and  his  jaw  dropped. 

It  was  the  bandbox:  not  that  which  he  had  left, 
with  its  cargo  of  trash,  in  his  rooms. 

Alison  followed  his  glance,  elevated  her  brows,  and 
indicated  the  box  with  a  wave  of  her  arm. 

"And  what  d'  you  know  about  that?"  she  enquired 
bluntly. 

"Where  did  it  come  from?"  he  counter-questioned, 
all  agape. 

"I'm  asking  you." 

"But  —  I  know  nothing  about  it.  Did  Miss  Searle 
send  it— ?" 

"  I  can't  say,"  replied  the  actress  drily.  "  Your  name 
on  the  tag  has  been  scratched  out  and  mine,  with  this 
address,  written  above  it." 

Staff  moved  over  to  the  table  and  while  he  was 
intently  scrutinising  the  tag,  Alison  continued: 

"It  came  by  messenger  about  eight  this  morning 
Jane  brought  it  to  me  when  I  got  up  a  little  while 
ago." 

"The  hat  was  in  it?"  he  asked. 


THE  COLD  GREY  DAWN  207 

She  nodded  impatiently:  "Oh,  of  course  —  with  the 
lining  half  ripped  out  and  the  necklace  missing." 

"Curious!"  he  murmured. 

"Rather,"  she  agreed.    "What  do  you  make  of  it?" 

"This  address  isn't  her  writing,"  he  said,  deep  in 
thought. 

"Oh,  so  you're  familiar  with  the  lady's  hand?" 
There  was  an  accent  in  Alison's  voice  that  told  him, 
before  he  looked,  that  her  lip  was  curling  and  her  eyes 
were  hard. 

"This  is  a  man's  writing,"  he  said  quietly,  wondering 
if  it  could  be  possible  that  Alison  was  jealous. 

"Well?"  she  demanded.    "What  of  it?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Miss  Searle  got  me  on  the  telephone 
a  little  after  one  last  night;  she  said  she  'd  found  the 
necklace  in  the  hat  and  was  bringing  it  to  me." 

"  How  did  she  know  it  was  mine?  " 

"Heard  you  order  it  sent  to  me,  in  London.  You'll 
remember  my  telling  you  she  knew." 

"Oh,  yes.    Goon." 

"  She  did  n't  show  up,  but  telephoned  again  some 
time  round  four  o'clock  explaining  that  she  had  been 
in  a  taxicab  accident  in  the  Park  and  lost  her  way  but 
finally  got  home  —  that  is,  to  her  hotel,  the  St.  Simon. 
She  said  the  necklace  was  safe  —  didn't  mention 
the  hat  —  and  asked  me  to  call  for  it  at  noon  to- 


208  THE    BANDBOX 

day.  I  said  I  would,  and  I'm  by  way  of  being  late 
now.  Doubtless  she  can  explain  how  the  hat  came 
to  you  this  way." 

"I  '11  be  interested  to  hear,"  said  Alison,  "and  to 
know  that  the  necklace  is  really  safe.  On  the  face  of 
it  —  as  it  stands  —  there 's  something  queer  —  wrong. 
.  .  .  What  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

Staff  had  moved  toward  the  telephone.  He  paused, 
explaining  that  he  was  about  to  call  up  Miss  Searle 
for  reassurance.  Alison  negatived  this  instantly. 

"Why  waste  time?  If  she  has  the  thing,  the  quickest 
way  to  get  it  is  to  go  to  her  now  —  at  once.  If  she 
hasn't,  the  quickest  way  to  get  after  it  is  via  the 
same  route.  I  'm  all  ready  and  if  you  are  we  '11  go 
immediately." 

Staff  bowed,  displeased  with  her  manner  to  the 
point  of  silence.  He  had  no  objection  to  her  being  as 
temperamental  as  she  pleased,  but  he  objected  strongly 
to  having  it  implied  by  everything  except  spoken 
words  that  he  was  in  some  way  responsible  for  the 
necklace  and  that  Eleanor  Searle  was  quite  capable  of 
conspiring  to  steal  it. 

As  for  Alison,  her  humour  was  dangerously  impreg 
nated  with  the  consciousness  that  she  had  played  the 
fool  to  such  an  extent  that  she  stood  in  a  fair  way  to 
lose  her  necklace.  Inasmuch  as  she  knew  this  to  be 


THE  COLD  GREY  DAWN  209 

altogether  her  fault,  whatever  the  outcome,  ,she  was  in 
a  mood  to  quarrel  with  the  whole  wide  world;  and  she 
schooled  herself  to  treat  with  Staff  on  terms  of  tol 
eration  only  by  exercise  of  considerable  self-command 
and  because  she  was  exacting  a  service  of  him. 

So  their  ride  uptown  was  marked  by  its  atmosphere 
of  distant  and  dispassionate  civility.  They  spoke  in 
frequently,  and  then  on  indifferent  topics  soon  suf 
fered  to  languish.  Indue  course,  however,  Staff  mastered 
his  resentment  and  —  as  evidenced  by  his  wry,  secret 
smile  —  began  to  take  a  philosophic  view  of  the  sit 
uation,  to  extract  some  slight  amusement  from  his 
insight  into  Alison's  mental  processes.  Intuitively 
sensing  this,  she  grew  even  more  exasperated  with 
him  —  as  well  as  with  everybody  aside  from  her  own 
impeccable  self. 

At  the  St.  Simon,  Staff  soberly  escorted  the  woman 
to  the  lounge,  meaning  to  leave  her  there  while  he 
enquired  for  Eleanor  at  the  office;  but  they  had  barely 
set  foot  in  the  apartment  when  then'  names  were 
shrieked  at  them  in  an  excitable,  shrill,  feminine  voice, 
and  Mrs.  Ilkington  bore  down  upon  them  in  full 
regalia  of  sensation. 

"My  dears!"  she  cried,  regarding  them  affection 
ately —  "such  a  surprise!  Such  a  delightful  surprise! 
And  so  good  of  you  to  come  to  see  me  so  soon!  And 


210  THE    BANDBOX 

opportune  —  I  'm  dying,  positively  expiring,  for  some 
body  to  gossip  with.  Such  a  singular  thing  has 
happened  — " 

Alison  interrupted  bluntly:  "Where's  Miss  Searle? 
Mr.  Staff  is  anxious  to  see  her." 

"That's  just  it — just  what  I  want  to  talk  about. 
You  'd  never  guess  what  that  girl  has  done  —  and  after 
all  the  trouble  and  thought  I  Ve  taken  in  her  behalf, 
too!  I'm  disgusted,  positively  and  finally  disgusted; 
never  again  will  I  interest  myself  in  such  people. 
I-" 

"But  where  is  Miss  Searle?"  demanded  Alison,  with 
a  significant  look  to  Staff. 

"Gone!  "  announced  Mrs.  Ilkington  impressively. 

"Gone?  "echoed  Staff. 

Mrs.  Ilkington  nodded  vigorously,  compressing  her 
lips  to  a  thin  line  of  disapproval.  "  I  'm  positively  at 
my  wits'  end  to  account  for  her." 

"  I  fancy  there  's  an  explanation,  however,"  Alison 
put  in. 

"I  wish  you'd  tell  me,  then.  .  .  .  You  see,  we 
dined  out,  went  to  the  theatre  and  supper  together, 
last  night.  The  Struyvers  asked  me,  and  I  made  them 
include  her,  of  course.  We  got  back  about  one.  Of 
course,  my  dears,  I  was  fearfully  tired  and  did  n't  get 
up  till  half  an  hour  ago.  Imagine  my  sensation  when 


THE  COLD  GREY  DAWN  211 

I  enquired  for  Miss  Searle  and  was  informed  that  she 
paid  her  bill  and  left  at  five  o'clock  this  morning,  and 
with  a  strange  man!" 

"She  left  you  a  note,  of  course?"  Staff  suggested. 

"Not  a  line  —  nothing!  I  might  be  the  dirt  beneath 
her  feet,  the  way  she 's  treated  me.  I  'm  thoroughly 
disillusioned  —  disgusted!" 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Staff;  "I  '11  have  a  word  with  the 
office." 

He  hurried  away,  leaving  Mrs.  Ilkington  still  volubly 
dilating  on  that  indignity  that  had  been  put  upon 
her:  Alison  listening  with  an  ah-  of  infinite  de 
tachment. 

His  enquiry  was  fruitless  enough.  The  day-clerk, 
he  was  informed  by  that  personage,  had  not  come  on 
duty  until  eight  o'clock;  he  knew  nothing  of  the  affair 
beyond  what  he  had  been  told  by  the  night-clerk  — 
that  Miss  Searle  had  called  for  her  bill  and  paid  it  at 
five  o'clock;  had  given  instructions  to  have  her  luggage 
removed  from  her  room  and  delivered  on  presentation 
of  her  written  order;  and  had  then  left  the  hotel  in 
company  with  a  gentleman  who  registered  as  "I. 
Arbuthnot "  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  paying  for 
his  room  in  advance. 

Staff,  consumed  with  curiosity  about  this  gentle 
man,  was  so  persistent  in  his  enquiry  that  he  finally 


THE    BANDBOX 

unearthed  the  bell-boy  who  had  shown  that  guest 
to  his  room  and  who  furnished  what  seemed  to  be  a 
tolerably  accurate  sketch  of  him. 

The  man  described  was  —  Iff. 

Discouraged  and  apprehensive,  Staff  returned  to  the 
lounge  and  made  his  report  —  one  received  by  Alison 
with  frigid  disapproval,  by  Mrs.  Ilkington  with  every 
symptom  of  cordial  animation;  from  which  it  became 
immediately  apparent  that  Alison  had  told  the  elder 
woman  everything  she  should  not  have  told  her. 

''I.  Arbuthnot,'"  Alison  translated:   "Arbuthnot 
Ismay." 

"Gracious!"  Mrs.  Ilkington  squealed.  "Isn't  that 
the  real  name  of  that  odd  creature  who  called  himself 
Iff  and  pretended  to  be  a  Secret  Service  man?" 

Staff  nodded  a  glum  assent. 

"It's  plain  enough,"  Alison  went  on;  "this  Searle 
woman  was  in  league  with  him  — " 

"I  disagree  with  you,"  said  Staff. 

"On  what  grounds?" 

"I  don't  believe  that  Miss  Searle—" 

"On  what  grounds?" 

He  shrugged,  acknowledging  his  inability  to  explain. 

"And  what  will  you  do?"  interrupted  Mrs.  Ilkington. 

"I  shall  inform  the  police,  of  course,"  said  Alison; 
"and  the  sooner  the  better." 


THE  COLD  GREY  DAWN  213 

"If  I  may  venture  so  far,"  Staff  said  stiffly,  "I 
advise  you  to  do  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"And  why  not,  if  you  please?" 

"It's  rather  a  delicate  case,"  he  said  —  "if  you'll 
pause  to  consider  it.  You  must  not  forget  that  you 
yourself  broke  the  law  when  you  contrived  to  smuggle 
the  necklace  into  this  country.  The  minute  you  make 
this  matter  public,  you  lay  yourself  open  to  arrest  and 
prosecution  for  swindling  the  Government." 

"Swindling!"  Alison  repeated  with  a  flaming  face. 

Staff  bowed,  confirming  the  word.  "It  is  a  very 
serious  charge  these  days,"  he  said  soberly.  "I  'd 
advise  you  to  think  twice  before  you  make  any  overt 
move." 

"But  if  I  deny  attempting  to  smuggle  the  necklace? 
If  I  insist  that  it  was  stolen  from  me  aboard  the  Auto 
cratic —  stolen  by  this  Mr.  Ismay  and  this  Searle 
woman  —  ?  " 

"Miss  Searle  did  not  steal  your  necklace.  If  she 
had  intended  anything  of  the  sort,  she  would  n't  have 
telephoned  me  about  it  last  night. " 

"Nevertheless,  she  has  gone  away  with  it,  arm-in 
arm  with  a  notorious  thief,  has  n't  she?" 

"We're  not  yet  positive  what  she  has  done.  For 
my  part,  I  am  confident  she  will  communicate  with  us 
and  return  the  necklace  with  the  least  possible  delay." 


THE    BANDBOX 

"Nevertheless,  I  shall  set  the  police  after  her!" 
Alison  insisted  obstinately. 

"Again  I  advise  you  —  " 

"But  I  shall  deny  the  smuggling,  base  my  charge 
on  —  " 

"One  moment,"  Staff  interposed  firmly.  "You 
forget  me.  I'm  afraid  I  can  adduce  considerable  evi 
dence  to  prove  that  you  not  only  attempted  to  smuggle, 
but  as  a  matter  of  fact  did." 

"And  you  would  do  that  —  to  me?"  snapped  the 
actress. 

"I  mean  that  Miss  Searle  shall  have  every  chance 
to  prove  her  innocence,"  he  returned  in  an  even  and 
unyielding  voice. 

"Why?    What's  your  interest  in  her?" 

"Simple  justice,"  he  said  —  and  knew  his  answer 
to  be  evasive  and  unconvincing. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  Alison,  rising  in  her  anger, 
"you've  fallen  in  love  with  the  girl!" 

Staff  held  her  gaze  in  silence. 

"You're  in  love  with  her,"  insisted  the  actress 
— "  in  love  with  this  common  thief  and  confidence- 
woman  ! " 

Staff  nodded  gently.  "Perhaps,"  said  he,  "you  're 
right.  I  had  n't  thought  of  it  that  way  before.  .  .  . 
But,  if  you  doubt  my  motive  in  advising  you  to  go 


THE  COLD  GREY  DAWN  215 

slow,  consult  somebody  else  —  somebody  you  feel 
you  can  trust:  Max,  for  instance,  or  your  attorney. 
Meanwhile,  I  'd  ask  Mrs.  Ilkington  to  be  discreet,  if 
I  were  you." 

Saluting  them  ceremoniously,  he  turned  and  left  the 
hotel,  deeply  dejected,  profoundly  bewildered  and  .  .  . 
wondering  whether  or  not  Alison  in  her  rage  had  un 
covered  a  secret  unsuspected  even  by  himself,  to  whom 
it  should  have  been  most  intimate. 


XII 

WON'T  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOUR? 

SLIPPING  quickly  into  the  room  through  an  open 
ing  hardly  wide  enough  to  admit  his  spare, 
small  body,  the  man  as  quickly  shut  and  locked  the 
door  and  pocketed  the  key.  This  much  accomplished, 
he  swung  on  his  heel  and,  without  further  movement, 
fastened  his  attention  anew  upon  the  girl. 

Standing  so  —  hands  clasped  loosely  before  him,  his 
head  thrust  forward  a  trifle  above  his  rounded  shoulders, 
pale  eyes  peering  from  their  network  of  wrinkles  with 
a  semi-humourous  suggestion,  thin  lips  curved  in  an 
apologetic  grin:  his  likeness  to  the  Mr.  Iff  known 
to  Staff  was  something  more  than  striking.  One 
needed  to  be  intimately  and  recently  acquainted  with 
Iff's  appearance  to  be  able  to  detect  the  almost  imper 
ceptible  points  of  difference  between  the  two.  Had 
Staff  been  there  he  might  have  questioned  the  colour 
of  this  man's  eyes,  which  showed  a  lighter  tint  than 
Iff's,  and  their  expression  —  here  vigilant  and  preda 
tory  in  contrast  with  Iff's  languid,  half-derisive  look. 
The  line  of  the  cheek  from  nose  to  mouth,  too,  was 

216 


WON'T    YOU    WALK    IN?     217 

deeper  and  more  hard  than  with  Iff;  and  there  was  a 
hint  of  elevation  in  the  nostrils  that  lent  the  face  a 
guise  of  malice  and  evil  —  like  the  shadow  of  an  im 
personal  sneer. 

The  look  he  bent  upon  Eleanor  was  almost  a  sneer: 
a  smile  in  part  contemptuous,  in  part  studious;  as 
though  he  pondered  a  problem  in  human  chemistry 
from  the  view-point  of  a  seasoned  and  experienced 
scientist.  He  cocked  his  head  a  bit  to  one  side  and 
stared  insolently  beneath  half-lowered  lids,  now  and 
again  nodding  ever  so  slightly  as  if  in  confirmation  of 
some  unspoken  conclusion. 

Against  the  cold,  inflexible  purpose  in  his  manner, 
the  pitiful  prayer  expressed  in  the  girl's  attitude  spent 
itself  without  effect.  Her  hands  dropped  to  her 
sides;  her  head  drooped  wearily,  hopelessly;  her 
pose  personified  despondency  profound  and  irreme 
diable. 

When  he  had  timed  his  silence  cunningly,  to  ensure 
the  most  impressive  effect,  the  man  moved,  shifting 
from  one  foot  to  the  other,  and  spoke. 

"Well,  Nelly  .    .    .  ?" 

His  voice,  modulated  to  an  amused  drawl,  was  much 
like  Iff's. 

The  girl's  lips  moved  noiselessly  for  an  instant  before 
she  managed  to  articulate. 


218  THE    BANDBOX 

"So,"  she  said  in  a  quiet  tone  of  horror  —  "So  it 
was  you  all  the  time!" 

"What  was  me?"  enquired  the  man  inelegantly  if 
with  spirit. 

"I  mean,"  she  said,  "you  were  after  the  necklace, 
after  all." 

"  To  be  sure,"  he  said  pertly.    "  What  did  you  think?  " 

"I  hoped  it  wasn't  so,"  she  said  brokenly.  "When 
you  escaped  yesterday  morning,  and  when  tonight  I 
found  the  necklace  —  I  was  so  glad!" 

"Then  you  did  find  it?"  he  demanded  promptly. 

She  gave  him  a  look  of  contempt.  "You  know 
it!" 

"My  dear  child,"  he  expostulated  insincerely,  "what 
makes  you  say  that?" 

"You  don't  mean  to  pretend  you  didn't  steal  the 
bandbox  from  me,  just  now,  in  that  taxicab,  trying  to 
get  the  necklace?  "  she  demanded. 

He  waited  an  instant,  then  shrugged.  "I  presume 
denial  would  be  useless." 

"Quite." 

"All  right  then:  I  won't  deny  anything." 

She  moved  away  from  the  telephone  to  a  chair 
wherein  she  dropped  as  if  exhausted,  hands  knitted 
together  in  her  lap,  her  chin  resting  on  her 
chest. 


WON'T    YOU    WALK    IN? 

"You  see,"  said  the  man,  "I  wanted  to  spare  you  the 
knowledge  that  you  were  being  held  up  by  your  fond 
parent." 

"I  should  have  known  you,"  she  said,  "but  for  that 
disguise  —  the  beard  and  motor-coat." 

"That  just  goes  to  show  that  filial  affection  will  out," 
commented  the  man.  "You  have  n't  seen  me  for  seven 
years  — 

"Except  on  the  steamer,"  she  corrected. 

"True;  but  there  I  kept  considerately  out  of  your 
way." 

"Considerately!"  she  echoed  in  a  bitter  tone. 

"Can  you  question  it?"  he  asked,  lightly  ironic, 
moving  noiselessly  to  and  fro  while  appraising 
the  contents  of  the  room  with  swift,  searching 
glances. 

"As,  for  instance,  your  actions  tonight.   ..." 

"They  simply  prove  my  contention,  dear  child.'* 
He  paused,  gazing  down  at  her  with  a  quizzical  leer. 
"My  very  presence  here  affirms  my  entire  devotion  to 
your  welfare." 

She  looked  up,  dumfounded  by  his  effrontery.  "Is 
it  worth  while  to  waste  your  time  so? "  she  enquired. 
"You  failed  the  first  time  tonight,  but  you  can't  fail 
now;  I'm  alone,  I  can't  oppose  you,  and  you  know  I 
won't  raise  an  alarm.  Why  not  stop  talking,  take  what 


220  THE    BANDBOX 

you  want  and  go?  And  leave  me  to  be  accused  of  theft 
unless  I  choose  to  tell  the  world  —  what  it  would  n't 
believe  —  that  my  own  father  stole  the  necklace  from 
me!" 

"Ah,  but  how  unjust  you  are!"  exclaimed  the  man. 
"How  little  you  know  me,  how  little  you  appreciate  a 
father's  affection!" 

"And  you  tried  to  rob  me  not  two  hours  ago!" 

"Yes,"  he  said  cheerfully:  "I  admit  it.  If  I  had 
got  away  with  it  then  —  well  and  good.  You  need 
never  have  known  who  it  was.  Unhappily  for  both  of 
us,  you  fooled  me." 

"For  both  of  us?"  she  repeated  blankly. 

"  Precisely.  It  puts  you  in  a  most  serious  position. 
That 's  why  I  'm  here  —  to  save  you." 

In  spite  of  her  fatigue,  the  girl  rose  to  face  him. 
"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Simply  that  between  us  we've  gummed  this  busi 
ness  up  neatly  —  hard  and  fast.  You  see  —  I  had  n't 
any  use  for  that  hat;  I  stopped  in  at  an  all-night 
telegraph,  station  and  left  it  to  be  delivered  to  Miss 
Landis,  never  dreaming  what  the  consequences  would 
be.  Immediately  thereafter,  but  too  late,  I  learned  — 
I  Ve  a  way  of  finding  out  what 's  going  on,  you  know  — 
that  Miss  Landis  had  already  put  the  case  in  the  hands 
of  the  police.  It  makes  it  very  serious  for  you  —  the 


WON'T    YOU     WALK    IN? 

bandbox  returned,  the  necklace  still  in  your  possession, 
your  wild,  incredible  yarn  about  meaning  to  restore 
it  .  .  ." 

In  her  overwrought  and  harassed  condition,  the  soph 
istry  illuded  her;  she  was  sensible  only  of  the  menace 
his  words  distilled.  She  saw  herself  tricked  and  trapped, 
meshed  in  a  web  of  damning  circumstance;  every 
thing  was  against  her  —  appearances,  the  hands  of  all 
men,  the  cruel  accident  that  had  placed  the  necklace 
in  her  keeping,  even  her  parentage.  For  she  was  the 
daughter  of  a  notorious  thief,  a  man  whose  name  was 
an  international  byword.  Who  would  believe  her 
protestations  of  innocence  —  presuming  that  the  police 
should  find  her  before  she  could  reach  either  Staff  or 
Miss  Landis? 

"But,"  she  faltered,  white  to  her  lips,  "I  can  take  it 
to  her  now  —  instantly  — " 

Instinctively  she  clutched  her  handbag.  The  man's 
eyes  appreciated  the  movement.  His  face  was  shadowed 
for  a  thought  by  the  flying  cloud  of  a  sardonic  smile. 
And  the  girl  saw  and  read  that  smile. 

"Unless,"  she  stammered,  retreating  from  him  a 
pace  or  two  —  "  unless  you  — " 

He  silenced  her  with  a  reassuring  gesture. 

"You  do  misjudge  me!"  he  said  in  a  voice  that 
fairly  wept. 


222  THE    BANDBOX 

Hope  flamed  in  her  eyes.  "You  mean  —  you  can't 
mean — " 

Again  he  lifted  his  hand.  "  I  mean  that  you  miscon 
strue  my  motive.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  deny  that  I 
am  —  what  I  am.  We  have  ever  been  plain-spoken 
with  one  another.  You  told  me  what  I  was  seven 
years  ago,  when  you  left  me,  took  another  name,  dis 
owned  me  and  ..."  His  voice  broke  affectingly  for 
an  instant.  "No  matter,"  he  resumed,  with  an  obvious 
effort.  "The  past  is  past,  and  I  am  punished  for  all 
that  I  have  ever  done  or  ever  may  do,  by  the  loss  of 
my  daughter's  confidence  and  affection.  It  is  my 
fault;  I  have  no  right  to  complain.  But  now  .  .  . 
Yes,  I  admit  I  tried  to  steal  the  necklace  in  the  Park 
tonight.  But  I  failed,  and  failing  I  did  that  which  got 
you  into  trouble.  Now  I  'm  here  to  help  you  extricate 
yourself.  Don't  worry  about  the  necklace  —  keep  it, 
hide  it  where  you  will.  I  don't  want  and  shan't  touch, 
it  on  any  conditions." 

"You  mean  I'm  free  to  return  it  to  Miss  Landis?" 
she  gasped,  incredulous. 

"Just  that." 

"Then  —  where  can  I  find  her?" 

He  shrugged.    "There  's  the  rub.    She  's  left  town." 

She  steadied  herself  with  a  hand  on  the  table.  "  Still 
I  can  follow  her-  -  , 


"Yes  —  and  must.  That's  what  I've  come  to  tell 
you  and  to  help  you  do." 

"  Where  has  she  gone?  " 

"To  her  country  place  in  Connecticut,  on  the  Sound 
shore." 

"How  can  I  get  there?  By  railroad?"  Eleanor 
started  toward  the  telephone. 

"Hold  on!"  he  said  sharply.  "What  are  you  going 
to  do?" 

"Order  a  time-table  — " 

"Useless,"  he  commented  curtly.  "Every  terminal 
in  the  city  is  already  watched  by  detectives.  They'd 
spot  you  in  a  twinkling.  Your  only  salvation  is  to 
get  to  Miss  Landis  before  they  catch  you." 

In  her  excitement  and  confusion  she  could  only 
stand  and  stare.  A  solitary  thought  dominated  her 
consciousness,  dwarfing  and  distorting  all  others:  she 
was  in  danger  of  arrest,  imprisonment,  the  shame  and 
ignominy  of  public  prosecution.  Even  though  she 
were  to  be  cleared  of  the  charge,  the  stain  of  it  would 
cling  to  her,  an  ineradicable  blot. 

And  every  avenue  of  escape  was  closed  to  her! 
Her  lips  trembled  and  her  eyes  brimmed,  glistening. 
Despair  lay  cold  in  her  heart. 

She  was  so  weary  and  distraught  with  the  strain  of 
nerves  taut  and  vibrant  with  emotion,  that  she  was 


THE    BANDBOX 

by  no  means  herself.  She  had  no  time  for  either 
thought  or  calm  consideration;  and  even  with  plenty 
of  time,  she  would  have  found  herself  unable  to  think 
clearly  and  calmly. 

"What  am  I  to  do,  then?"  she  whispered. 

"Trust  me,"  the  man  replied  quietly.  "There  's 
just  one  way  to  reach  this  woman  without  risk  of 
detection  —  and  that  's  good  only  if  we  act  now.  Get 
your  things  together;  pay  your  bill;  leave  word  to 
deliver  your  trunks  to  your  order;  and  come  with  me. 
I  have  a  motor-car  waiting  round  the  corner.  In  an 
hour  we  can  be  out  of  the  city.  By  noon  I  can  have 
you  at  Miss  Landis'  home." 

"Yes,"  she  cried,  almost  hysterical  —  "yes,  that  's 
the  way!" 

"Then  do  what  packing  you  must.  Here,  I'll  lend 
a  hand." 

Fortunately,  Eleanor  had  merely  opened  her  trunks 
and  bags,  removing  only  such  garments  and  toilet 
accessories  as  she  had  required  for  dinner  and  the 
theatre.  These  lay  scattered  about  the  room,  easily 
to  be  gathered  up  and  stuffed  with  careless  haste  into 
her  trunks.  In  ten  minutes  the  man  was  turning  the 
keys  in  their  various  locks,  while  she  stood  waiting  with 
a  small  handbag  containing  a  few  necessaries,  a  motor- 
coat  over  her  arm,  a  thick  veil  draped  from  her  hat. 


WON'T    YOU    WALK    IN?     225 

"One  minute,"  the  man  said,  straightening  up  from 
the  last  piece  of  luggage.  "You  were  telephoning  when 
I  came  in?" 

"Yes  —  to  Mr.  Staff,  to  explain  why  I  failed  to  bring 
him  the  bandbox." 

"Hmmm."  He  pondered  this,  chin  in  hand.  "He'll 
be  fretting.  Does  he  know  where  you  are?  " 

"No  —  I  forgot  to  tell  him." 

"That's  good.  Still,  you'd  better  call  him  up  again 
and  put  his  mind  at  rest.  It  may  gain  us  a  few  hours." 

"What  am  I  to  say?" 

She  lifted  her  hand  to  the  receiver. 

"Tell  him  you  were  cut  off  and  had  trouble  getting 
his  number  again.  Say  your  motor  broke  down  in 
Central  Park  and  you  lost  your  way  trying  to  walk 
home.  Say  you  're  tired  and  don't  want  to  be  disturbed 
till  noon;  that  you  have  the  necklace  safe  and  will 
give  it  to  him  if  he  will  call  tomorrow." 

Eleanor  took  a  deep  breath,  gave  the  number  to 
the  switchboard  operator  and  before  she  had  time 
to  give  another  instant's  consideration  to  what  she 
was  doing,  found  herself  in  conversation  with  Staff,  re 
citing  the  communication  outlined  by  her  evil  genius 
in  response  to  his  eager  questioning. 

The  man  was  at  her  elbow  all  the  while  she  talked 
—  so  close  that  he  could  easily  overhear  the  other 


226  THE    BANDBOX 

end  of  the  dialogue.  This  was  with  a  purpose  made 
manifest  when  Staff  asked  Eleanor  where  she  was  stop 
ping,  when  instantly  the  little  man  clapped  his  palm 
over  the  transmitter. 

"Tell  him  the  St.  Regis,"  he  said  in  a  sharp  whisper. 

Her  eyes  demanded  the  reason  why. 

"Don't  stop  to  argue  —  do  as  I  say:  it  '11  give  us 
more  time.  The  St.  Regis!" 

He  removed  his  hand.  Blindly  she  obeyed,  reiterat 
ing  the  name  to  Staff  and  presently  saying  good-bye. 

"And  now  —  not  a  second  to  spare  —  hurry!" 

In  the  hallway,  while  they  waited  for  the  elevator, 
he  had  further  instructions  for  her. 

"Go  to  the  desk  and  ask  for  your  bill,"  he  said, 
handing  her  the  key  to  her  room.  "You  Ve  money, 
of  course?  .  .  .  Say  that  you  're  called  unexpectedly 
away  and  will  send  a  written  order  for  your  trunks 
early  in  the  morning.  If  the  clerk  wants  an  address, 
tell  him  the  Auditorium,  Chicago.  Now  ..." 

They  stepped  from  the  dimly  lighted  hall  into  the 
brilliant  cage  of  the  elevator.  It  dropped,  silently, 
swiftly,  to  the  ground  floor,  somehow  suggesting  to 
the  girl  the  workings  of  her  implacable,  irresistible  des 
tiny.  So  precisely,  she  felt,  she  was  being  whirled 
on  to  her  fate,  like  a  dry  leaf  in  a  gale,  with  no  more 
,  volition,  as  impotent  to  direct  her  course.  .  .  . 


WON'T    YOU    WALK    IN?     227 

Still  under  the  obsession  of  this  idea,  she  went  to 
the  desk,  paid  her  bill  and  said  what  she  had  been  told 
to  say  about  her  trunks.  Beyond  that  point  she  did 
not  go,  chiefly  because  she  had  forgotten  and  was 
too  numb  with  fatigue  to  care.  The  clerk's  question 
as  to  her  address  failed  to  reach  her  understanding; 
she  turned  away  without  responding  and  went  to 
join  at  the  door  the  man  who  seemed  able  to  sway  her 
to  his  whim. 

She  found  herself  walking  in  the  dusky  streets,  strug 
gling  to  keep  up  with  the  rapid  pace  set  by  the  man 
at  her  side. 

After  some  time  they  paused  before  a  building  in  a 
side  street.  By  its  low  facade  and  huge  sliding  doors 
she  dimly  perceived  it  to  be  a  private  garage.  In 
response  to  a  signal  of  peculiar  rhythm  knuckled  upon 
the  wood  by  her  companion,  the  doors  rolled  back. 
A  heavy-eyed  mechanic  saluted  them  drowsily.  On 
the  edge  of  the  threshold  a  high-powered  car  with  a 
close-coupled  body  stood  ready. 

With  the  docility  of  that  complete  indifference  which 
is  bred  of  deadening  weariness,  she  submitted  to  being 
helped  to  her  seat,  arranged  her  veil  to  protect  her 
face  and  sat  back  with  folded  hands,  submissive  to 
endure  whatsoever  chance  or  mischance  there  might 
oe  in  store  for  her. 


228  THE    BANDBOX 

The  small  man  took  the  seat  by  her  side;  the  me 
chanic  cranked  and  jumped  to  his  place.  The  motor 
snorted,  trembling  like  a  thoroughbred  about  to  run 
a  race,  then  subsiding  with  a  sonorous  purr  swept 
sedately  out  into  the  deserted  street,  swung  round  a 
corner  into  Broadway,  settled  its  tires  into  the 
grooves  of  the  car-tracks  and  leaped  northwards  like 
an  arrow. 

The  thoroughfare  was  all  but  bare  of  traffic.  Now 
and  again  they  had  to  swing  away  from  the  car-tracks 
to  pass  a  surface-car;  infrequently  they  passed  early 
milk  wagons,  crawling  reluctantly  over  their  routes. 
Pedestrians  were  few  and  far  between,  and  only  once, 
when  they  dipped  into  the  hollow  at  Manhattan 
Street,  was  it  necessary  to  reduce  speed  in  defer 
ence  to  the  law  as  bodied  forth  in  a  balefully 
glaring,  solitary  policeman. 

The  silken  song  of  six  cylinders  working  in  abso 
lute  harmony  was  as  soothing  as  a  lullaby,  the  sweep 
of  the  soft,  fresh  morning  air  past  one's  cheeks 
as  soft  and  quieting  as  a  mother's  caress.  Eleanor 
yielded  to  their  influence  as  naturally  as  a  tired  child. 
Her  eyes  closed;  she  breathed  regularly,  barely  con 
scious  of  the  sensation  of  resistless  flight. 

Hot  and  level,  the  rays  of  the  rising  sun  smote  her 
face  and  roused  her  as  the  car  crossed  McComb's 


WON'T    YOU    WALK    IN?     229 

Dam  Bridge;  and  for  a  little  time  thereafter  she 
was  drowsily  sentient  —  aware  of  wheeling  streets  and 
endless,  marching  ranks  of  houses.  Then  again  she 
dozed,  recovering  her  senses  only  when,  after  a  lapse 
of  perhaps  half  an  hour,  the  noise  of  the  motor  ceased 
and  the  big  machine  slowed  down  smoothly  to  a  dead 
halt. 

She  opened  her  eyes,  comprehending  dully  a  com 
plete  change  in  the  aspect  of  the  land.  They  had 
stopped  on  the  right  of  the  road,  in  front  of  a  low- 
roofed  wooden  building  whose  signboard  creaking  over 
head  in  the  breeze  named  the  place  an  inn.  To 
the  left  lay  a  stretch  of  woodland;  and  there  were 
trees,  too,  behind  the  inn,  but  in  less  thick  array,  so 
that  it  was  possible  to  catch  through  their  trunks  and 
foliage  glimpses  of  blue  water  splashed  with  golden 
sunlight.  A  soft  air  fanned  in  off  the  water,  sweet 
and  clean.  The  sky  was  high  and  profoundly  blue, 
unflecked  by  cloud. 

With  a  feeling  of  gratitude,  she  struggled  to  recollect 
her  wits  and  realise  her  position;  but  still  her  weari 
ness  was  heavy  upon  her.  The  man  she  called  her 
father  was  coming  down  the  path  from  the  inn  door 
way.  He  carried  a  tumbler  brimming  with  a  pale 
amber  liquid.  Walking  round  to  her  side  of  the  car 
he  offered  it. 


230  THE    BANDBOX 

"Drink  this,"  she  heard  him  say  in  a  pleasant  voice; 
"  it  '11  help  you  brace  up." 

Obediently  she  accepted  the  glass  and  drank.  The 
soul  of  the  stuff  broke  out  in  delicate,  aromatic  bubbles 
beneath  her  nostrils.  There  was  a  stinging  but  re 
freshing  feeling  in  her  mouth  and  throat.  She  said 
"champagne"  sleepily  to  herself,  and  with  a  word  of 
thanks  returned  an  empty  glass. 

She  heard  the  man  laugh,  and  in  confusion 
wondered  why.  If  anything,  she  felt  more  sleepy 
than  before. 

He  climbed  back  into  his  seat.  A  question  crawled 
in  her  brain,  tormenting.  Finally  she  managed  to 
enunciate  a  part  of  it: 

"How  much  longer  .  .  .  ?" 

"Oh,  not  a  great  ways  now." 

The  response  seemed  to  come  from  a  far  distance. 
She  felt  the  car  moving  beneath  her  and  ...  no  more. 
Sleep  possessed  her  utterly,  heavy  and  dreamless.  .  .  . 

There  followed  several  phases  of  semi-consciousness 
wherein  she  moved  by  instinct  alone,  seeing  men  as 
trees  walking,  the  world  as  through  a  mist. 

In  one,  she  was  being  helped  out  of  the  motor-car. 
Then  somebody  was  holding  her  arm  and  guiding  her 
along  a  path  of  some  sort.  Planks  rang  hollowly 
beneath  her  feet,  and  the  hand  on  her  arm  detained 


WON'T    YOU    WALK    IN?     231 

her.  A  voice  said:  "This  way  —  just  step  right  out; 
you  're  perfectly  safe."  Mechanically  she  obeyed.  She 
felt  herself  lurch  as  if  to  fall,  and  then  hands  caught 
and  supported  her  as  she  stood  on  something  that 
swayed.  The  voice  that  had  before  spoken  was  ad 
vising  her  to  sit  down  and  take  it  easy.  Accordingly, 
she  sat  down.  Her  seat  was  rocking  like  a  swing,  and 
she  heard  dimly  the  splash  of  waters;  these  merged 
unaccountably  again  into  the  purring  of  a  motor.  .  .  . 

And  then  somebody  had  an  arm  round  her  waist 
and  she  was  walking,  bearing  heavily  upon  that  sup 
port,  partly  because  she  sorely  needed  it  but  the  more 
readily  because  she  knew  somehow  —  intuitively  — 
that  the  arm  was  a  woman's.  A  voice  assured  her  from 
time  to  time:  "Not  much  farther  ..."  And  she 
was  sure  it  was  a  woman's  voice.  .  .  .  Then  she  was 
being  helped  to  ascend  a  steep,  long  staircase.  .  .  . 

She  came  to  herself  for  a  moment,  probably  not 
long  after  climbing  the  stairs.  She  was  sitting  on  the 
edge  of  a  bed  in  a  small,  low-ceiled  room,  cheaply  and 
meagrely  furnished.  Staring  wildly  about  her,  she 
tried  to  realise  these  surroundings.  There  were  two 
windows,  both  open,  admitting  floods  of  sea  ah*  and 
sunlight;  beyond  them  she  saw  green  boughs  swaying 
slowly,  and  through  the  boughs  patches  of  water,  blue 
and  gold.  There  was  a  door  opposite  the  bed;  it  stood 


232  THE    BANDBOX 

open,  revealing  a  vista  of  long,  bare  hallway,  regularly 
punctuated  by  doors. 

The  drumming  in  her  temples  pained  and  bewildered 
her.  Her  head  felt  dense  and  heavy.  She  tried  to 
think  and  failed.  But  the  knowledge  persisted  that 
something  was  very  wrong  with  her  world  —  some 
thing  that  might  be  remedied,  set  right,  if  only  she 
could  muster  up  strength  to  move  and  .  .  .  think. 

Abruptly  the  doorway  was  filled  by  the  figure  of 
a  woman,  a  strapping,  brawny  creature  with  the  arms 
and  shoulders  of  a  man  and  a  great,  coarse,  good- 
natured  face.  She  came  directly  to  the  bed,  sat  down 
beside  the  girl,  passed  an  arm  behind  her  shoulders 
and  offered  her  a  glass. 

"You  've  just  woke  up,  ain't  you?"  she  said  sooth 
ingly.  "  Drink  this  and  lay  down  and  you  '11  feel 
better  before  long.  You  have  had  a  turn,  and  no 
mistake;  but  you  '11  be  all  right  now,  never  fear. 
Come  now,  drink  it,  and  I  '11  help  you  loose  your 
clothes  a  bit,  so  's  you  can  be  comfortable.  ..." 

Somehow  her  tone  inspired  Eleanor  with  confidence. 
She  drank,  submitted  to  being  partially  undressed, 
and  lay  down.  Sleep  overcame  her  immediately:  she 
suffered  a  sensation  of  dropping  plummet-wise  into  a 
great  pit  of  oblivion.  .  .  . 


XIII 

WRECK  ISLAND 

SUDDENLY,  with  a  smothered  cry  of  surprise, 
Eleanor  sat  up.  She  seemed  to  have  recovered 
full  consciousness  and  sensibility  with  an  instantane 
ous  effect  comparable  only  to  that  of  electric  light 
abruptly  flooding  a  room  at  night.  A  moment  ago 
she  had  been  an  insentient  atom  sunk  deep  in  im 
penetrable  night;  now  she  was  herself  —  and  it  was 
broad  daylight. 

With  an  abrupt,  automatic  movement,  she  left  the 
bed  and  stood  up,  staring  incredulously  at  the  sub 
stance  of  what  still  wore  in  her  memory  the  guise  of  a 
dream. 

But  it  had  been  no  dream,  after  all.  She  was  actu 
ally  in  the  small  room  with  the  low  ceiling  and  the  door 
(now  shut)  and  the  windows  that  revealed  the  green 
of  leaves  and  the  blue  and  gold  of  a  sun-spangled  sea. 
And  her  coat  and  hat  and  veil  had  been  removed  and 
were  hanging  from  nails  in  the  wall  behind  the  door, 
and  her  clothing  had  been  unfastened  —  precisely  as 

233 


234  THE    BANDBOX 

she  dimly  remembered  everything  that  had  happened 
with  relation  to  the  strange  woman. 

She  wore  a  little  wrist-watch.  It  told  her  that  the 
hour  was  after  four  in  the  afternoon. 

She  began  hurriedly  to  dress,  or  rather  to  repair 
the  disorder  of  her  garments,  all  the  while  struggling 
between  surprise  that  she  felt  rested  and  well  and 
strong,  and  a  haunting  suspicion  that  she  had  been 
tricked. 

Of  the  truth  of  this  suspicion,  confirmatory  evidence 
presently  overwhelmed  her. 

Since  that  draught  of  champagne  before  the  road 
side  inn  shortly  after  sunrise,  she  had  known  nothing 
clearly.  It  was  impossible  that  she  could  without 
knowing  it  have  accomplished  her  purpose  with 
relation  to  Alison  Landis  and  the  Cadogan  collar. 
She  saw  now,  she  knew  now  beyond  dispute,  that  she 
had  been  drugged  —  not  necessarily  heavily;  a  simple 
dose  of  harmless  bromides  would  have  served  the 
purpose  in  her  overtaxed  condition  —  and  brought 
to  this  place  in  a  semi-stupor,  neither  knowing  whither 
she  went  nor  able  to  object  had  she  known. 

The  discovery  of  her  handbag  was  all  that  was  re 
quired  to  transmute  fears  and  doubts  into  irrefragable 
knowledge. 

No  longer  fastened  to  her  wrist  by  the  loop  of  its 


WRECK    ISLAND  235 

silken  thong,  she  found  the  bag  in  plain  sight  on  the 
top  of  a  cheap  pine  bureau.  With  feverish  haste  she 
examined  it.  The  necklace  was  gone. 

Dropping  the  bag,  she  stared  bitterly  at  her  dis 
torted  reflection  in  a  cracked  and  discoloured  mirror. 

What  a  fool,  to  trust  the  man!  In  the  clear  illumi 
nation  of  unclouded  reason  which  she  was  now  able  to 
bring  to  bear  upon  the  episode,  she  saw  with  painful 
distinctness  how  readily  she  had  lent  herself  to  be  the 
dupe  and  tool  of  the  man  she  called  her  father.  Noth 
ing  that  he  had  urged  upon  her  at  the  St.  Simon  had 
now  the  least  weight  in  her  understanding;  all  his 
argument  was  now  seen  to  be  but  the  sheerest  sophistry, 
every  statement  he  had  made  and  every  promise  fairly 
riddled  with  treachery;  hardly  a  phrase  he  had  uttered 
would  have  gained  an  instant's  credence  under  the 
analysis  of  a  normal  intelligence.  He  could  have  ac 
complished  nothing  had  she  not  been  without  sleep 
for  nearly  twenty-four  hours,  with  every  nerve  and 
fibre  and  faculty  aching  for  rest.  But,  so  aided  — 
with  what  heartless  ease  had  he  beguiled  and  over 
reached  her! 

Tears,  hot  and  stinging,  smarted  in  her  eyes  while 
she  fumbled  with  the  fastenings  of  her  attire  —  tears 
of  chagrin  and  bitter  resentment. 

As    soon    as    she    was  ready   and   composed,   she 


236  THE    BANDBOX 

opened  the  door  very  gently  and  stepped  out  into 
the  hall. 

It  was  a  short  hall,  set  like  the  top  bar  of  a  T-square 
at  the  end  of  a  long,  door-lined  corridor.  The  walls 
were  of  white,  plain  plaster,  innocent  of  paper  and  in 
some  places  darkly  blotched  with  damp  and  mildew. 
The  floor,  though  solid,  was  uncarpeted.  Near  at  hand 
a  flight  of  steps  ran  down  to  the  lower  floor. 

After  a  moment  of  hesitation  she  chose  to  explore 
the  long  corridor  rather  than  to  descend  at  once  by 
the  nearer  stairway;  and  gathering  her  skirts  about 
her  ankles  (an  instinctive  precaution  against  making 
a  noise  engendered  by  the  atmosphere  of  the  place 
rather  than  the  result  of  coherent  thought)  she  stole 
quietly  along  between  its  narrow  walls. 

Although  some  few  were  closed,  the  majority  of  the 
doors  she  passed  stood  open;  and  these  all  revealed 
small,  stuffy  cubicles  with  grimy,  unpainted  floors, 
grimy  plaster  walls  and  ceilings  and  grimy  windows 
whose  panes  were  framed  in  cobwebs  and  crusted  so 
thick  with  the  accumulated  dust  and  damp  of  years 
that  they  lacked  little  of  complete  opacity.  No  room 
contained  any  furnishing  of  any  sort. 

The  farther  she  moved  from  her  bedroom,  the  more 
close  and  stale  and  sluggish  seemed  the  air,  the  more 
oppressive  the  quiet  of  this  strange  tenement.  The 


WRECK    ISLAND  237 

sound  of  her  footfalls,  light  and  stealthy  though 
they  were,  sounded  to  her  ears  weirdly  magnified  in 
volume;  and  the  thought  came  to  her  that  if  she 
were  indeed  trespassing  upon  forbidden  quarters  of 
the  mean  and  dismal  stronghold  of  some  modern 
Bluebeard,  the  noise  she  was  making  would  quickly 
enough  bring  the  warders  down  upon  her.  And 
yet  it  must  have  been  that  her  imagination  ex 
aggerated  the  slight  sounds  that  attended  her  cau 
tious  advance;  for  presently  she  had  proof  enough 
that  they  could  have  been  audible  to  none  but 
herself. 

Half-way  down  the  corridor  she  came  unexpectedly 
to  a  second  staircase;  double  the  width  of  the  other, 
it  ran  down  to  a  broad  landing  and  then  in  two  short 
flights  to  the  ground  floor  of  the  building.  The  well 
of  this  stairway  disclosed  a  hall  rather  large  and  well- 
finished,  if  bare.  Directly  in  front  of  the  landing, 
where  the  short  flights  branched  at  right  angles  to  the 
main,  was  a  large  double  door,  one  side  of  which 
stood  slightly  ajar.  Putting  this  and  that  together, 
Eleanor  satisfied  herself  that  she  overlooked  the 
entrance-hall  and  office  of  an  out-of-the-way  summer 
hotel,  neither  large  nor  in  any  way  pretentious  even 
in  its  palmiest  days,  and  now  abandoned  —  or,  at 
best,  consecrated  to  the  uses  of  caretakers  and  who- 


238  THE    BANDBOX 

ever  else  might  happen  to  inhabit  the  wing  whence 
she  had  wandered. 

Now  as  she  paused  for  an  instant,  looking  down 
while  turning  this  thought  over  in  her  mind  and  con 
sidering  the  effect  upon  herself  and  fortunes  of  indefi 
nite  sequestration  in  such  a  spot,  she  was  startled  by 
a  cough  from  some  point  invisible  to  her  in  the  hall 
below.  On  the  heels  of  this,  she  heard  something  even 
more  inexplicable:  the  dull  and  hollow  clang  of  a 
heavy  metal  door.  Footsteps  were  audible  imme 
diately  :  the  quick,  nervous  footfalls  of  somebody  com 
ing  to  the  front  of  the  house  from  a  point  behind  the 
staircase. 

Startled  and  curious,  the  girl  drew  back  a  careful 
step  or  two  until  sheltered  by  the  corridor  wall  at  its 
junction  with  the  balustrade.  Here  she  might  lurk 
and  peer,  see  but  not  be  seen,  save  through  unhappy 
mischance. 

The  man  came  promptly  into  view.  She  had  fore 
told  his  identity,  had  known  it  would  be  ...  he 
whom  she  must  call  father. 

He  moved  briskly  to  the  open  door,  paused  and 
stood  looking  out  for  an  instant,  then  with  his  air 
of  furtive  alertness,  yet  apparently  sure  that  he  was 
unobserved  and  wholly  unsuspicious  of  the  presence 
of  the  girl  above  him,  swung  back  toward  the  stair- 


WRECK    ISLAND  239 

case.  For  an  instant,  terrified  by  the  fear  that  he 
meant  to  ascend,  she  stood  poised  on  the  verge  of 
flight;  but  that  he  had  another  intention  at  once  became 
apparent.  Stopping  at  the  foot  of  the  left-hand  flight 
of  steps,  he  laid  hold  of  the  turned  knob  on  top  of 
the  outer  newel  post  and  lifted  it  from  its  socket.  Then 
he  took  something  from  his  coat  pocket,  dropped  it 
into  the  hollow  of  the  newel,  replaced  the  knob  and 
turned  and  marched  smartly  out  of  the  house,  shutting 
the  door  behind  him. 

Eleanor  noticed  that  he  did  n't  lock  it. 

At  the  same  time  three  separate  considerations 
moved  her  to  fly  back  to  her  room.  She  had  seen 
something  not  intended  for  her  sight;  the  knowledge 
might  somehow  prove  valuable  to  her;  and  if  she  were 
discovered  in  the  corridor,  the  man  might  reasonably 
accuse  her  of  spying.  Incontinently  she  picked  up 
her  skirts  and  ran. 

The  distance  was  n't  as  great  as  she  had  thought; 
in  a  brief  moment  she  was  standing  before  the  door 
of  the  bedroom  as  though  she  had  just  come  out  — 
her  gaze  directed  expectantly  toward  the  small  stair 
case. 

If  she  had  anticipated  a  visit  from  her  kidnapper, 
however,  she  was  pleasantly  disappointed.  Not  a 
sound  came  from  below,  aside  from  a  dull  and  distant 


240  THE    BANDBOX 

thump  and  thud  which  went  on  steadily,  if  in  synco 
pated  measure,  and  the  source  of  which  perplexed  her. 

At  length  she  pulled  herself  together  and  warily 
descended  the  staircase.  It  ended  in  what  was  largely 
a  counterpart  of  the  hall  above:  as  on  the  upper  floor 
broken  by  the  mouth  of  a  long  corridor,  but  with  a 
door  at  its  rear  in  place  of  the  window  upstairs.  From 
beyond  the  door  came  the  thumping,  thudding  sound 
that  had  puzzled  Eleanor;  but  now  she  could  distin 
guish  something  more:  a  woman's  voice  crooning  an 
age-old  melody.  Then  the  pounding  ceased,  shuffling 
footsteps  were  audible,  and  a  soft  clash  of  metal 
upon  metal :  shuffle  again,  and  again  the  intermittent, 
deadened  pounding. 

Suddenly  she  understood,  and  understanding  almost 
smiled,  in  spite  of  her  gnawing  anxiety,  to  think  that 
she  had  been  mystified  so  long  by  a  noise  of  such 
humble  origin:  merely  that  of  a  woman  comfortably 
engaged  in  the  household  task  of  ironing.  It  was 
simple  enough,  once  one  thought  of  it;  yet  ridicu 
lously  incongruous  when  injected  into  the  cognisance 
of  a  girl  whose  brain  was  buzzing  with  the  incredible 
romance  of  her  position.  .  .  . 

Without  further  ceremony  she  thrust  open  the  door 
at  the  end  of  the  hallway. 

There  was  disclosed  a  room  of  good  size,  evidently 


WRECK    ISLAND  241 

at  one  time  a  living-room,  now  converted  to  the  com 
bined  offices  of  kitchen  and  dining-room.  A  large  deal 
table  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  was  covered  with  a 
turkey-red  cloth,  with  places  set  for  four.  On  a  small 
range  in  the  recess  of  what  had  once  been  an  open 
fireplace,  sad-irons  were  heating  side  by  side  with  sim 
mering  pots  and  a  steaming  tea-kettle.  There  was  a 
rich  aroma  of  cooking  in  the  air,  somewhat  tinctured 
by  the  smell  of  melting  wax,  but  in  spite  of  that  madly 
appetising  to  the  nostrils  of  a  young  woman  made 
suddenly  aware  that  she  had  not  eaten  for  some 
sixteen  hours.  The  furnishings  of  the  room  were  sim 
ple  and  characteristic  of  country  kitchens  —  including 
even  the  figure  of  the  sturdy  woman  placidly  ironing 
white  things  on  a  board  near  the  open  door. 

She  looked  up  quickly  as  Eleanor  entered,  stopped 
her  humming,  smote  the  board  vigorously  with  the 
iron  and  set  the  latter  on  a  metal  rest. 

"Evening,"  she  said  pleasantly,  resting  her  hands 
on  her  hips. 

Eleanor  stared  dumbly,  remembering  that  this  was 
the  woman  who  had  helped  her  to  bed  and  had  admin 
istered  what  had  presumably  been  a  second  sleeping 
draught. 

"Thought  I  heard  you  moving  around  upstairs. 
How  be  you?  Hungry?  I  Ve  got  a  bite  ready." 


242  THE    BANDBOX 

"I'd  like  a  drink  of  water,  please,"  said  Eleanor  — 
"  plain  water,"  she  added  with  a  significance  that  could 
not  have  been  overlooked  by  a  guilty  conscience. 

But  the  woman  seemed  to  sense  no  ulterior  meaning. 
"I'll  fetch  it,"  she  said  in  a  good-humoured  voice, 
going  to  the  sink. 

While  she  was  manipulating  the  pump,  the  girl  moved 
nearer,  frankly  taking  stock  of  her.  The  dim  impres 
sion  retained  from  their  meeting  in  the  early  morning 
was  merely  emphasised  by  this  second  inspection; 
the  woman  was  built  on  generous  lines  —  big-boned, 
heavy  and  apparently  immensely  strong.  A  contented 
and  easy-going  humour  shone  from  her  broad,  coarsely 
featured  countenance,  oddly  contending  with  a  sug 
gestion  of  implacable  obstinacy  and  tenacious  purpose. 

"Here  you  are,"  she  said  presently,  extending  a 
glass  filmed  with  the  breath  of  the  ice-cold  liquid  it 
contained. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Eleanor;  and  drank  thirstily. 
"Who  are  you?"  she  demanded  point  blank,  returning 
the  glass. 

"Mrs.  Clover,"  said  the  woman  as  bluntly,  if  with  a 
smiling  mouth. 

"Where  am  I?" 

"Well" —  the  woman  turned  to  the  stove  and  busied 
herself  with  coffee-pot  and  frying-pan  while  she  talked 


WRECK    ISLAND  243 

— "  this  was  the  Wreck  Island  House  oncet  upon  a 
time.  I  calculate  it 's  that  now,  only  it  ain't  run  as  a 
hotel  any  more.  It 's  been  years  since  there  was  any 
summer  folks  come  here  —  place  did  n't  pay,  they  said; 
guess  that 's  why  they  shet  it  up  and  how  your  pa  come 
to  buy  it  for  a  song." 

"Where  is  the  Wreck  Island  House,  then?"  Eleanor 
put  in. 

"On  Wreck  Island,  of  course." 

"And  where  is  that?" 

"In  Long  Island  Sound,  about  a  mile  off  Jn  the 
Connecticut  shore.  Pennymint  Centre's  the  nearest 
village." 

"That  means  nothing  to  me,"  said  the  girl.  "How 
far  are  we  from  New  York?" 

"  I  could  n't  rightly  say  —  ain't  never  been  there. 
But  your  pa  says  —  I  heard  him  tell  Eph  once  —  he 
can  make  the  run  in  his  autymobile  in  an  hour  and  a 
half.  That 's  from  Pennymint  Centre,  of  course." 

Eleanor  pressed  her  hands  to  her  temples,  temporarily 
dazed  by  the  information.  "Island,"  she  repeated  — 
"a  mile  from  shore  —  New  York  an  hour  and  a  half 
away  .  .  .  !" 

"Good,  comfortable,  tight  little  island,"  resumed 
Mrs.  Clover,  pleased,  it  seemed,  with  the  sound  of  her 
own  voice;  "you'll  like  it  when  you  come  to  get 


244  THE    BANDBOX 

acquainted.  Just  the  very  place  for  a  girl  with  your 
trouble." 

"My  trouble?    What  do  you  know  about  that? " 

"Your  pa  told  me,  of  course.  Nervous  prostration's 
what  he  called  it  —  says  as  you  need  a  rest  with  quiet 
and  nothing  to  disturb  you  —  plenty  of  good  food  and 
sea  air — " 

"Oh  stop!"  Eleanor  begged  frantically. 

"Land!"  said  the  woman  in  a  kindly  tone  —  "I 
might  've  known  I'd  get  on  your  poor  nerves,  talking 
all  the  time.  But  I  can't  seem  to  help  it,  living  here  all 
alone  like  I  do  with  nobody  but  Eph  most  of  the  time. 
.  .  .  There!"  she  added  with  satisfaction,  spearing 
the  last  rasher  of  bacon  from  the  frying-pan  and 
dropping  it  on  a  plate  —  "  now  your  breakfast 's 
ready.  Draw  up  a  chair  and  eat  hearty." 

She  put  the  plate  on  the  red  table-cloth,  flanked 
it  with  dishes  containing  soft-boiled  eggs,  bread  and 
butter  and  a  pot  of  coffee  of  delicious  savour,  and 
waved  one  muscular  arm  over  it  all  with  the  gesture 
of  a  benevolent  sorceress.  "Set  to  while  it's  hot,  my 
dear,  and  don't  you  be  afraid;  good  food  never  hurt 
nobody." 

Momentarily,  Eleanor  entertained  the  thought  of 
mutinous  refusal  to  eat,  by  way  of  lending  emphasis  to 
her  indignation;  but  hunger  overcame  the  attractions 


WRECK    ISLAND  245 

of  this  dubious  expedient;  and  besides,  if  she  were  to 
accomplish  anything  toward  regaining  her  freedom, 
if  it  were  no  more  than  to  register  a  violent  protest, 
she  would  need  strength;  and  already  she  was  weak 
for  want  of  food. 

So  she  took  her  place  and  ate  —  ate  ravenously, 
enjoying  every  mouthful  —  even  though  her  mind  was 
obsessed  with  doubts  and  fears  and  burning  anger. 

"You  are  the  caretaker  here?"  she  asked  as  soon 
as  her  hunger  was  a  little  satisfied. 

"Reckon  you  might  call  us  that,  me  and  Eph;  we've 
lived  here  for  five  years  now,  taking  care  of  the  island  — • 
ever  since  your  pa  bought  it." 

"Eph  is  your  husband?" 

"That 's  him  —  Ephraim  Clover." 

"And  —  doesn't  he  do  anything  else  but  —  care- 
take?" 

"Lord  bless  you,  he  don't  even  do  that;  I  'm  the 
caretakerm.  Eph  don't  do  nothing  but  potter  round 
with  the  motor-boat  and  go  to  town  for  supplies  and 
fish  a  little  and  'tend  to  the  garden  and  do  the  chores 
and—" 

"  I  should  think  he  must  keep  pretty  busy." 

"Busy?  Him?  Eph?  Lord!  he 's  the  busiest  thing 
you  ever  laid  your  eyes  on  —  poking  round  doing 
nothing  at  all." 


246  THE    BANDBOX 

"And  does  nobody  ever  come  here  .   .    .  ?  " 

"Nobody  but  the  boss." 

"Does  he  often  —  ?" 

"That 's  as  may  be  and  the  fit 's  on  him.  He  comes 
and  goes,  just  as  he  feels  like.  Sometimes  he  's  on  and 
off  the  island  half  a  dozen  times  a  week,  and  again 
we  don't  hear  nothing  of  him  for  months;  sometimes 
he  just  stops  here  for  days  and  mebbe  weeks,  and 
again  he's  here  one  minute  and  gone  the  next.  Jumps 
round  like  a  flea  on  a  griddle,  I  say;  you  can't  never 
tell  nothing  about  what  he's  going  to  do  or  where  he'll 
be  next.  .  .  .  My  land  o'  mercy,  Mr.  Searle !  What 
a  start  you  did  give  me!" 

The  man  had  succeeded  in  startling  both  women,  as 
a  matter  of  fact.  Eleanor,  looking  suddenly  up  from 
her  plate  on  hearing  Mrs.  Clover's  cry  of  surprise,  saw 
him  lounging  carelessly  in  the  hall  doorway,  where  he 
had  appeared  as  noiselessly  as  a  shadow.  His  sly,  satiric 
smile  was  twisting  his  thin  lips,  and  a  sardonic  humour 
glittered  in  the  pale  eyes  that  shifted  from  Eleanor's 
face  to  Mrs.  Clover's,  and  back  again. 

"I  wish,"  he  said,  nodding  to  the  caretaker,  "you'd 
slip  down  to  the  dock  and  tell  Eph  to  have  the  boat 
ready  by  seven  o'clock." 

"Yes,  sir,"  assented  Mrs.  Clover  hastily.  She 
crossed  at  once  toward  the  outer  door.  From  her 


WRECK    ISLAND  247 

tone  and  the  alacrity  with  which  she  moved  to  do  his 
bidding,  no  less  than  from  the  half-cringing  look  with 
which  she  met  his  regard,  Eleanor  had  no  difficulty 
in  divining  her  abject  fear  of  this  man  whom 
she  could,  apparently,  have  taken  in  her  big  hands 
and  broken  in  two  without  being  annoyed  by  his 
struggles. 

"And,  here!"  he  called  after  her  —  "supper  ready?" 

"Yes,  sir  —  quite." 

"Very  well;  I'll  have  mine.  Eph  can  come  up  as 
soon  as  he's  finished  overhauling  the  motor.  Wait 
a  minute:  tell  him  to  be  sure  to  bring  the  oars  up  with 
him." 

"Yes,  sir,  I  will,  sir." 

Mrs.  Clover  dodged  through  the  door  and,  running 
down  the  pair  of  steps  from  the  kitchen  stoop  to  the 
ground,  vanished  behind  the  house. 

"Enjoying  your  breakfast,  I  trust?" 

Eleanor  pushed  back  her  chair  and  rose.  She  feared 
him,  feared  him  as  she  might  have  feared  any  loathly, 
venomous  thing;  but  she  was  not  in  the  least  spiritu 
ally  afraid  of  him.  Contempt  and  disgust  only  em 
phasised  the  quality  of  her  courage.  She  confronted 
him  without  a  tremor. 

"Will  you  take  me  with  you  when  you  leave  this 
island  tonight?  "  she  demanded. 


248  THE    BANDBOX 

He  shook  his  head  with  his  derisive  smile.  She  had 
discounted  that  answer. 

"How  long  do  you  mean  to  keep  me  here?" 

"That  depends  on  how  agreeable  you  make  your 
self,"  he  said  obscurely. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Merely  that  .  .  .  well,  it 's  a  pleasant,  salubrious 
spot,  Wreck  Island.  You  '11  find  it  uncommonly  health 
ful  and  enjoyable,  too,  as  soon  as  you  get  over  the 
loneliness.  Not  that  you  '11  be  so  terribly  lonely;  I 
shall  be  here  more  or  less,  off  and  on,  much  of  the 
time  for  the  next  few  weeks.  I  don't  mind  telling  you, 
in  strict  confidence,  as  between  father  and  child,  that 
I  'm  planning  to  pull  off  something  pretty  big  before 
long;  of  course  it  will  need  a  bit  of  arranging  in  ad 
vance  to  make  everything  run  smoothly,  and  this  is 
ideal  for  a  man  of  my  retiring  disposition,  not  overfond 
of  the  espionage  of  his  fellow-men.  So,  if  you  're 
docile  and  affectionate,  we  may  see  a  great  deal  of 
one  another  for  some  weeks  —  as  I  said." 

"And  if  not  —  ?" 

"Well"  —  he  waved  his  hands  expressively  —  "of 
course,  if  you  incline  to  be  forward  and  disobedient, 
then  I  shall  be  obliged  to  deny  you  the  light  of  my 
countenance,  by  way  of  punishment." 

She  shook  her  head  impatiently.    "I  want  to  know 


WRECK    ISLAND 

when  you  will  let  me  go,"  she  insisted,  struggling 
against  the  oppression  of  her  sense  of  helplessness. 

"I  really  can't  say."  He  pretended  politely  to  sup 
press  a  yawn,  indicating  that  the  subject  bored  him 
inordinately.  "If  I  could  trust  you  — " 

"Can  you  expect  that,  after  the  way  you  treated 
me  last  night  —  this  morning?  " 

"Ah,  well!"  he  said,  claw-like  fingers  stroking  his 
lips  to  conceal  his  smile  of  mockery. 

"You  lied  to  me,  drugged  me,  robbed  me  of  the 
necklace,  brought  me  here.  .  .  . " 

"Guilty,"  he  said,  yawning  openly. 

"Why?  You  could  have  taken  the  necklace  from  me 
at  the  hotel.  Why  must  you  bring  me  here  and  keep 
me  prisoner  ?  " 

"  The  pleasure  of  my  only  daughter's  society.   ..." 

"Oh,  you  're  despicable!"  she  cried,  furious. 

He  nodded  thoughtfully,  fumbling  with  his  lips. 

"Won't  you  tell  me  why?"  she  pleaded. 

He  shook  his  head.  "You  would  n't  understand/' 
he  added  in  a  tone  of  maddening  commiseration. 

"I  shan't  stay!"  she  declared  angrily. 

"Oh,  I  think  you  will,"  he  replied  gently. 

"I'll  get  away  and  inform  on  you  if  I  have  to 
swim." 

"It's  a  long,  wet  swim,"  he  mused  aloud  —  "over 


250  THE    BANDBOX 

a  mile,  I  should  say.  Have  you  ever  swum  over  a 
hundred  yards  in  your  life?  " 

She  was  silent,  choking  with  rage. 

"And  furthermore,"  he  went  on,  "there  are  the 
Clovers.  Excellent  people,  excellent  —  for  my  purposes. 
I  have  found  them  quite  invaluable  —  asking  no 
questions,  minding  their  own  business,  keen  to  obey 
my  instructions  to  the  letter.  I  have  already  in 
structed  them  about  you,  my  child.  I  trust  you  will 
be  careful  not  to  provoke  them;  it  'd  be  a  pity.  .  . 
you  're  rather  good-looking,  you  know ..." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  she  stammered,  a 
little  frightened  by  the  secret  menace  in  his  tone. 
"What  have  my  looks  to  do  with  .  .  .  ?" 

"Everything,"  he  said  softly  —  "everything.  Not 
so  far  as  Ephraim  is  concerned;  I  '11  be  frank  with  you 
—  you  needn't  fear  Ephraim 's  hurting  you,  much, 
should  you  attempt  to  escape.  He  will  simply  restrain 
you,  using  force  only  if  necessary.  B  ut  Mrs.  Clover  .  .  . 
she  's  different.  You  must  n't  let  her  deceive  you;  she 
seems  kindly  disposed  enough;  she 's  pleasant  spoken 
but  .  .  .  well,  she  's  not  fond  of  pretty  women.  It  's 
an  obsession  of  hers  that  prettiness  and  badness  go 
together.  And  Ephraim  is  fond  of  pretty  women  — 
very.  You  see?" 

"Well?" 


WRECK    ISLAND  251 

"Well,  that's  why  I  have  these  people  in  so  strong  a 
hold.  You  see,  Ephraim  got  himself  into  trouble  trying 
to  pull  off  one  of  those  bungling,  amateurish  burglaries 
that  his  kind  go  in  for  so  extensively;  he  wanted  the 
money  to  buy  things  for  a  pretty  woman.  And  he  was 
already  a  married  man.  You  can  see  how  Mrs.  Clover 
felt  about  it  She  —  ah  —  cut  up  rather  nasty.  When 
she  got  through  with  the  other  woman,  no  one  would 
have  called  her  pretty  any  longer.  Vitriol 's  a  dread 
ful  thing,  ..." 

He  paused  an  instant,  seeming  to  review  the  case 
sombrely.  "I  managed  to  get  them  both  off,  scot 
free;  and  that  makes  them  loyal.  But  it  would  go 
hard  with  anyone  who  tried  to  escape  to  the  mainland 
and  tell  on  them  —  to  say  nothing  of  me.  .  .  .  Mrs. 
Clover  has  ever  since  been  quite  convinced  of  the  virtue- 
of  vitriol.  She  keeps  a  supply  handy  most  of  the  time, 
in  case  of  emergencies.  And  she  sleeps  lightly;  don't 
forget  that.  I  hate  to  think  of  what  she  might  do  if 
she  thought  you  meant  to  run  away  and  tell  tales." 

Slowly,  step  by  step,  guessing  the  way  to  the  outer 
door,  the  girl  backed  away  from  him,  her  face  colour 
less  with  horror.  Very  probably  he  was  lying  to 
frighten  her;  very  possibly  (she  feared  desperately)  he 
was  not.  What  she  knew  of  him  was  hardly  reassur 
ing;  the  innate,  callous  depravity  that  had  poisoned 


THE    BANDBOX 

this  man  beyond  cure  might  well  have  caused  the  death- 
in-life  of  other  souls.  What  he  was  capable  of,  others 
might  be;  and  what  she  knew  him  to  be  capable  of, 
she  hardly  liked  to  dwell  upon.  Excusably  she  con 
ceived  her  position  more  than  desperate;  and  now  her 
sole  instinct  was  to  get  away  from  him,  if  only  for  a 
little  time,  out  of  the  foetid  atmosphere  of  his  presence, 
away  from  the  envenomed  irony  of  his  voice  —  away 
and  alone,  where  she  could  recollect  her  faculties  and 
again  realise  her  ego,  that  inner  self  that  she  had  tried 
so  hard  to  keep  stainless,  unspoiled  and  unafraid. 

He  watched  her  as  she  crept  inch  by  inch  toward 
the  door,  his  nervous  fingers  busy  about  his  mouth 
as  if  trying  to  erase  that  dangerous,  evil  smile. 

"Before  you  go,"  he  said  suddenly,  "I  should  tell 
you  that  you  will  be  alone  with  Mrs.  Clover  tonight. 
I  'm  going  to  town,  and  Ephraim  's  to  wait  with  the 
boat  at  Pennymint  Point,  because  I  mean  to  return 
before  morning.  But  you  needn't  wait  up  for  me; 
Mrs.  Clover  will  do  that." 

Eleanor  made  no  reply.  While  he  was  speaking  she 
had  gained  the  door.  As  she  stepped  out,  Mrs.  Clover 
reappeared,  making  vigorously  round  the  corner  of 
the  house. 

Passing  Eleanor  on  the  stoop,  she  gave  her  a  busy, 
friendly  nod,  and  hurried  in. 


WRECK    ISLAND  253 

"Eph  '11  be  up  in  half  an  hour,"  she  heard  her  say. 
"Shall  I  serve  your  supper  now?" 

"Please,"  he  said  quietly. 

The  girl  stumbled  down  the  steps  and  blindly  fled 
the  sound  of  his  voice. 


XIV 

THE  STRONG-BOX 

HER  initial  rush  carried  Eleanor  well  round  the 
front  of  the  building.  Then,  as  suddenly  as 
•she  had  started  off,  she  stopped,  common-sense  re 
asserting  itself  to  assure  her  that  there  was  nothing 
to  be  gained  by  running  until  exhausted;  her  enemy 
was  not  pursuing  her.  It  was  evident  that  she  was  to 
be  left  to  her  own  devices  as  long  as  they  did  not  impel 
her  to  attempt  an  escape  —  as  long  as  she  made  her 
self  supple  to  his  will. 

She  stood  for  a  long  minute,  very  erect,  head  up  and 
shoulders  back,  eyes  closed  and  lips  taut,  her  hands 
close-clenched  at  her  sides.  Then  drawing  a  long 
breath,  she  relaxed  and,  with  a  quiet  composure  ad 
mirably  self-enforced,  moved  on,  setting  herself  to 
explore  and  consider  her  surroundings. 

The  abandoned  hotel  faced  the  south,  overlooking 
the  greater  breadth  of  Long  Island  Sound.  In  it* 
«ra  of  prosperity,  the  land  in  front  of  it  to  the  water'* 
«dge,  and  indeed  for  a  considerable  space  on  all  sides* 

£54 


THE    STRONG-BOX  255 

had  been  clear  —  laid  out,  no  doubt,  in  grassy  lawns, 
croquet  grounds  and  tennis  courts;  but  in  the  long 
years  of  its  desuetude  these  had  reverted  to  the  prim 
itive  character  of  the  main  portion  of  the  island,  to  a 
tangle  of  undergrowth  and  shrubbery  sprinkled  with 
scrub-oak  and  stunted  pines.  In  one  spot  only,  a 
meagre  kitchen-garden  was  under  cultivation. 

Southward,  at  the  shore,  a  row  of  weather-beaten 
and  ramshackle  bath-houses  stood  beside  the  rotting 
remnants  of  a  long  dock  whose  piles,  bereft  of  their 
platform  of  planks,  ran  out  into  the  water  in  a  dreary 
double  rank. 

Westward,  a  patch  of  woodland  —progenitor  by 
every  characteristic  of  the  tangle  in  the  one-time 
clearing  —  shut  off  that  extremity  of  the  island  where 
it  ran  out  into  a  sandy  point.  Eastward  lay  an  exten 
sive  acreage  of  low,  rounded  sand  dunes,  held  together 
by  rank  beach-grass  and  bordered  by  a  broad,  slowly 
shelving  beach  of  sand  and  pebbles.  To  the  north, 
at  the  back  of  the  hotel,  stretched  a  waste  of  low 
ground  finally  merging  into  a  small  salt-marsh.  Across 
this  wandered  a  thin  plank  walk  on  stilts  which, 
over  the  clear  water  beyond  the  marsh,  became  a 
rickety  landing-stage.  At  some  distance  out  from  the 
latter  a  long,  slender,  slate-coloured  motor-boat  rode 
at  its  moorings,  a  rowboat  swinging  from  its  stern. 


256  THE    BANDBOX 

In  the  larger  craft  Eleanor  could  see  the  head  and 
shoulders  of  a  man  bending  over  the  engine  —  un 
doubtedly  Mr.  Ephraim  Clover.  While  she  watched 
him,  he  straightened  up  and,  going  to  the  stern  of 
the  motor-boat,  began  to  pull  the  dory  in  by  its 
painter.  Having  brought  it  alongside,  he  transshipped 
himself  awkwardly,  then  began  to  drive  the  dory  in 
to  the  dock.  Eleanor  remarked  the  fact  that  he  stood 
up  to  the  task,  propelling  the  boat  by  means  of  a 
single  oar,  thrusting  it  into  the  water  until  it  struck 
bottom  and  then  putting  his  weight  upon  it.  The 
water  was  evidently  quite  shallow;  even  where  the 
motor-boat  lay  moored,  the  oar  disappeared  no  more 
than  half  its  length. 

Presently,  having  gained  the  landing-stage,  the  man 
clambered  upon  it,  threw  a  couple  of  half-hitches  in 
the  painter  round  one  of  the  stakes,  shouldered  the  oars 
and  began  to  shamble  toward  the  hotel:  a  tall,  un 
gainly  figure  blackly  silhouetted  against  the  steel- 
blue  sky  of  evening. 

Eleanor  waited  where  she  was,  near  the  beginning 
of  the  plank  walk,  to  get  a  better  look  at  him.  In 
time  he  passed  her,  with  a  shy  nod  and  sidelong  glance. 
He  seemed  to  be  well  past  middle-age,  of  no  preten 
sions  whatever  to  physical  loveliness  and  (she  would 
have  said)  incurably  lazy  and  stupid:  his  face  dull 


THE    STRONG-BOX  257 

and  heavy,  his  whole  carriage  eloquent  of  a  nature  of 
sluggish  shiftlessness. 

He  disappeared  round  the  house,  and  a  moment 
later  she  heard  Mrs.  Clover  haranguing  him  in  a  shrill 
voice  of  impatience  little  resembling  the  tone  she 
had  employed  with  the  girl. 

For  an  instant  Eleanor  dreamed  wildly  of  running 
down  to  the  dock,  throwing  herself  into  the  rowboat 
and  casting  it  off  to  drift  whither  it  would.  But  the 
folly  of  this  was  too  readily  apparent;  even  if  she 
might  be  sure  that  the  tide  would  carry  her  away 
from  the  island,  the  water  wras  so  shallow  that  a  man 
could  wade  out  to  the  motor-boat,  climb  into  it  and 
run  her  down  with  discouraging  ease.  As  for  the 
motor-boat  —  she  had  n't  the  least  idea  of  the  art  of 
running  a  motor;  and  besides,  she  would  be  over 
hauled  before  she  could  get  to  it;  for  she  made  no 
doubt  whatever  that  she  was  being  very  closely 
watched,  and  would  be  until  the  men  had  left  the 
island.  After  that  ...  a  vista  of  days  of  grinding 
loneliness  and  hopeless  despair  opened  out  before  her 
disheartened  mental  vision. 

She  resumed  her  aimless  tour  of  inspection,  little 
caring  whither  she  wandered  so  long  as  it  was  far  from 
the  house,  as  far  as  possible  from  .  .  .  him. 

Sensibly  the  desolate  spirit  of  the  spot  saturated 


258  THE    BANDBOX 

her  mood.  No  case  that  she  had  ever  heard  of  seemed 
to  her  so  desperate  as  that  of  the  lonely,  helpless  girl 
marooned  upon  this  wave-bound  patch  of  earth  and 
sand,  cut  off  from  all  means  of  communication  with 
her  kind,  her  destiny  at  the  disposal  of  the  maleficent 
wretch  who  called  himself  her  father,  her  sole  compan 
ions  two  alleged  criminals  whose  depravity,  if  what 
she  had  heard  were  true,  was  subordinate  only  to 
his. 

She  could  have  wept,  but  would  n't;  the  emotion 
that  oppressed  her  was  not  one  that  tears  would  soothe, 
her  plight  not  one  that  tears  could  mend. 

Her  sole  comfort  resided  in  the  fact  that  she  was 
apparently  to  be  let  alone,  free  to  wander  at  will  within 
the  boundaries  of  the  island. 

Sunset  found  her  on  a  little  sandy  hillock  at  the 
western  end  of  Wreck  Island  —  sitting  with  her  chin 
in  her  hands,  and  gazing  seawards  with  eyes  in  which 
rebellion  smouldered.  She  would  not  give  in,  would 
not  abandon  hope  and  accept  the  situation  at  its  face 
value,  as  irremediable.  Upon  this  was  she  firmly 
determined :  the  night  was  not  to  pass  unmarked  by 
some  manner  of  attempt  to  escape  or  summon  aid. 
She  even  found  herself  willing  to  consider  arson  as  a 
last  resort:  the  hotel  afire  would  make  a  famous  torch 
to  bring  assistance  from  the  mainland.  Only  .  .  .  she 


THE    STRONG-BOX  259 

shrank  from  the  attempt,  her  soul  curdling  with  ths 
sinister  menace  of  vitriol. 

The  day  was  dying  in  soft  airs  that  swept  the  face 
of  the  waters  with  a  touch  so  light  as  to  be  barely  per 
ceptible.  With  sundown  fell  stark  calm;  the  Sound 
became  a  perfect  mirror  for  the  sombre  conflagration 
in  the  west.  The  slightest  sounds  reverberated  afar 
through  the  still,  moveless  void.  She  could  hear  Mrs. 
Clover  stridently  counselling  her  Ephraim  at  the 
house,  the  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  Later,  she  heard 
the  hollow  tramp  of  two  pair  of  feet,  one  heavy  and 
one  light,  on  the  plank- walk;  the  creak  of  rowlocks 
with  the  dip  and  splash  of  oars;  and,  after  a  little 
pause,  the  sudden,  sharp,  explosive  rattle  of  a  motor 
exhaust,  as  rapid,  loud  and  staccato  as  the  barking  of 

a  Gatling,  yet  quickly  hushed almost  as  soon  as  it 

shattered  the  silences,  muffled  to  a  thick  and  steady 
drumming. 

Eleanor  rose  and  turned  to  look  northward.  The 
wood-lot  hid  from  her  sight  both  dock  and  mooring  — 
and  all  but  the  gables  of  the  hotel,  as  well  —  but 
she  soon  espied  the  motor-boat  standing  away  on  a 
straight  course  for  the  mainland:  driven  at  a  speed 
that  seemed  to  her  nearly  incredible,  a  smother  of 
foam  at  its  stern,  long  purple  ripples  widening  away 
from  the  jet  of  white  water  at  the  stem,  a  smooth,  high 


260  THE    BANDBOX 

swell  of  dark  water  pursuing  as  if  it  meant  to  catch  up 
and  overwhelm  the  b.oat  and  its  occupants.  These 
latter  occupied  the  extremes  of  the  little  vessel:  Eph- 
raim  astern,  beside  the  motor;  the  slighter  figure  at  the 
wheel  in  the  bows. 

Slowly  the  girl  took  her  path  back  to  the  hotel, 
watching  the  boat  draw  away,  straight  and  swift  of 
flight  as  an  arrow,  momentarily  dwindling  and  losing 
definite  form  against  the  deepening  blue-black  surface 
of  the  Sound.  .  .  . 

Weary  and  despondent,  she  ascended  the  pair  of 
steps  to  the  kitchen  porch.  Mrs.  Clover  was  busy 
within,  washing  the  supper  dishes.  She  called  out 
a  cheery  greeting,  to  which  Eleanor  responded  briefly 
but  with  as  pleasant  a  tone  as  she  could  muster.  She 
could  not  but  distrust  her  companion  and  gaoler, 
could  not  but  fear  that  something  vile  and  terrible 
lurked  beneath  that  good-natured  semblance:  else 
why  need  the  woman  have  become  his  creature? 

"You  ain't  hungry  again?" 

"No,"  said  Eleanor,  lingering  on  the  porch,  reluctant 
to  enter. 

"Lonely?" 

"No.  .  .  ." 

"You  needn't  be;  your  pa '11  be  home  by  three 
o'clock,  he  says." 


THE    STRONG-BOX  261 

Eleanor  said  nothing.  Abruptly  a  thought  had 
entered  her  mind,  bringing  hope;  something  she  had 
almost  forgotten  had  recurred  with  tremendous 
significance. 

"Tired?  I  '11  go  fix  up  your  room  soon  's  I  'm  done 
here,  if  you  want  to  lay  down  again." 

"No;  I'm  in  no  hurry.  I  —  I  think  I'll  go  for 
another  little  walk  round  the  island." 

"Help  yourself,"  the  woman  called  after  her  heartily; 
"  I  '11  be  busy  for  about  half  an  hour,  and  then  we 
can  take  our  chairs  out  on  the  porch  and  watch 
the  moon  come  up  and  have  a  real  good,  old-fashioned 
gossip.  .  .  .  " 

Eleanor  lost  the  sound  of  her  voice  as  she  turned 
swiftly  back  round  the  house.  Then  she  stopped, 
catching  her  breath  with  delight.  It  was  true  —  splen 
didly  true!  The  rowboat  had  been  left  behind. 

It  rode  about  twenty  yards  out  from  the  end  of  the 
dock,  made  fast  to  the  motor-boat  mooring.  The 
oars  were  in  it;  Ephraim  had  left  them  carelessly 
disposed,  their  blades  projecting  a  little  beyond  the 
stern.  And  the  water  was  so  shallow  at  the  mooring 
that  the  man  had  been  able  to  pole  in  with  a 
single  oar,  immersing  it  but  half  its  length!  An 
oar,  she  surmised,  was  six  feet  long;  that  argued 
an  extreme  depth  of  water  of  three  feet  —  say  at  the 


262  THE    BANDBOX 

worst  three  and  a  half.  Surely  she  might  dare  to 
wade  out,  unmoor  the  boat  and  climb  in  —  if  but 
opportunity  were  granted  her! 

But  her  heart  sank  as  she  considered  the  odds  against 
any  such  attempt.  If  only  the  night  were  to  be  dark; 
if  only  Mrs.  Clover  were  not  to  wait  up  for  her  hus 
band  and  her  employer;  if  only  the  woman  were  not 
her  superior  physically,  so  strong  that  Eleanor  would 
be  like  a  child  in  her  hands;  if  only  there  were  not 
that  awful  threat  of  vitriol  .  .  .  ! 

Nevertheless,  in  the  face  of  these  frightful  deterrents, 
she  steeled  her  resolution.  Whatever  the  consequences, 
she  owed  it  to  herself  to  be  vigilant  for  her  chance. 
She  promised  herself  to  be  wakeful  and  watchful: 
possibly  Mrs.  Clover  might  nap  while  sitting  up;  and 
the  girl  had  two  avenues  by  which  to  leave  the  house: 
either  through  the  kitchen,  or  by  the  front  door  to 
the  disused  portion  of  the  hotel.  She  need  only 
steal  noiselessly  along  the  corridor  from  her  bedroom 
door  and  down  the  broad  main  staircase  and  —  the 
front  door  was  not  even  locked.  She  remembered 
distinctly  that  he  had  simply  pulled  it  to.  Still,  it 
would  be  well  to  make  certain  he  had  not  gone  back 
later  to  lock  it. 

Strolling  idly,  with  a  casual  air  of  utter  ennui  — 
assumed  for  the  benefit  of  her  gaoler  in  event  she 


THE    STRONG-BOX  263 

should  become  inquisitive  —  Eleanor  went  round  the 
eastern  end  of  the  building  to  the  front.  Here  a  broad 
veranda  ran  from  wing  to  wing;  its  rotting  weather- 
eaten  floor  fenced  in  by  a  dilapidated  railing  save 
where  steps  led  up  to  the  front  door;  its  roof  caved  in 
at  one  spot,  wearing  a  sorry  look  of  baldness  in  others 
where  whole  tiers  of  shingles  had  fallen  away. 

Cautiously  Eleanor  mounted  the  rickety  steps  and 
crossed  to  the  doors.  To  her  delight,  they  opened 
readily  to  a  turn  of  the  knob.  She  stood  for  a  trifle, 
hesitant,  peering  into  the  hallway  now  dark  with 
evening  shadow;  then  curiosity  overbore  her  reluc 
tance.  There  was  nothing  to  fear;  the  voice  of  Mrs. 
Clover  singing  over  her  dishpan  in  the  kitchen  came 
clearly  through  the  ground-floor  corridor,  advertising 
plainly  her  preoccupation.  And  Eleanor  wanted  des 
perately  to  know  what  it  was  that  the  man  had  hidden 
in  the  socket  of  the  newel-post. 

Shutting  the  door  she  felt  her  way  step  by  step 
to  the  foot  of  the  staircase.  Happily  the  floor  was 
sound :  no  creaking  betrayed  her  progress  —  there 
would  be  none  when  in  the  dead  of  night  she  would 
break  for  freedom. 

Mrs.  Clover  continued  to  sing  contentedly. 

Eleanor  removed  the  knob  of  the  post  and  looked 
down  into  the  socket.  It  was  dark  in  there;  she  could 


264  THE    BANDBOX 

see  nothing;  so  she  inserted  her  hand  and  groped  until 
her  fingers  closed  upon  a  thick  rough  bar  of  metal. 
Removing  this,  she  found  she  held  a  cumbersome 
old-fashioned  iron  key  of  curious  design. 

It  puzzled  her  a  little  until  she  recalled  the  clang 
of  metal  that  had  prefaced  the  man's  appearance  in 
the  hall  that  afternoon.  This  then,  she  inferred,  would 
be  the  key  to  his  private  cache  —  the  secret  spot  where 
he  hid  his  loot  between  forays. 

Mrs.  Clover  stopped  singing  suddenly,  and  the  girl 
in  panic  returned  the  key  to  its  hiding  place,  the  knob 
to  its  socket. 

But  it  had  been  a  false  alarm.  In  another  moment 
the  woman's  voice  was  again  upraised. 

Eleanor  considered,  staring  about  her.  He  had  come 
into  sight  from  beneath  the  staircase.  She  recon 
noitred  stealthily  in  that  direction,  and  discovered 
a  portion  of  the  hall  fenced  off  by  a  railing  and  counter: 
evidently  the  erstwhile  hotel  office.  A  door  stood  open 
behind  the  counter.  With  some  slight  qualms  she 
passed  into  the  enclosure  and  then  through  the  door. 

She  found  herself  in  a  small,  stuffy,  dark  room.  Its 
single  window,  looking  northwards,  was  closely  shut 
tered  on  the  outside;  only  a  feeble  twilight  filtered 
through  the  slanted  slats.  But  there  was  light  enough 
for  Eleanor  to  recognise  the  contours  and  masses  of  a 


THE    STRONG-BOX  265 

flat-topped  desk  with  two  pedestals  of  drawers,  a  re 
volving  chair  with  cane  seat  and  back,  a  brown  paper- 
pulp  cuspidor  of  generous  proportions  and  —  a  huge, 
solid,  antiquated  iron  safe:  a  "strong-box"  of  the  last 
century's  middle  decades,  substantial  as  a  rock,  tre 
mendously  heavy,  contemptuously  innocent  of  any  such 
innovations  as  combination-dials,  tune-locks  and  the 
like.  A  single  keyhole,  almost  large  enough  to  admit 
a  child's  hand,  and  certainly  calculated  to  admit  the 
key  in  the  newel-post,  demonstrated  that  this  safe  de 
pended  for  the  security  of  its  contents  upon  nothing 
more  than  its  massive  construction  and  unwieldy  lock. 
It  demonstrated  something  more:  that  its  owner 
based  his  confidence  upon  its  isolation  and  the  loyalty 
of  his  employees,  or  else  had  satisfied  himself  through 
practical  experiment  that  one  safe  was  as  good  as 
another,  ancient  or  modern,  when  subjected  to  the  test 
of  modern  methods  of  burglary. 

And  (Eleanor  was  sure)  the  Cadogan  collar  was 
there;  unless,  of  course,  the  man  had  taken  it  away  with 
him;  which  didn't  seem  likely,  all  things  considered. 
A  great  part  of  the  immense  value  of  the  necklace 
resided  in  its  perfection,  in  its  integrity;  as  a  whole 
it  wTould  be  an  exceedingly  difficult  thing  to  dispose 
of  until  long  after  the  furore  aroused  by  its  disappear 
ance  had  died  down;  broken  up,  its  marvellously 


266  THE    BANDBOX 

matched  pearls  separated  and  sold  one  by  one,  it  would 
not  realise  a  third  of  its  worth. 

And  the  girl  would  have  known  the  truth  in  five 
minutes  more  (she  was,  in  fact,  already  moving 
back  toward  the  newel-post)  had  not  Mrs.  Clover 
chosen  that  moment  to  leave  the  kitchen  and  tramp 
noisily  down  the  corridor. 

What  her  business  might  be  in  that  part  of  the 
house  Eleanor  could  not  imagine  —  unless  it  were 
connected  with  herself,  unless  she  had  heard  some 
sound  and  was  coming  to  investigate. 

In  panic  terror,  Eleanor  turned  back  into  the  little 
room  and  crouched  down  behind  the  safe,  making 
herself  as  small  as  possible,  actually  holding  her  breath 
for  fear  it  would  betray  her. 

Nearer  came  that  steady,  unhurried  tread,  and 
nearer.  The  girl  thought  her  heart  would  burst  with 
its  burden  of  suspense.  She  was  obliged  to  gasp  for 
breath,  and  the  noise  of  it  rang  as  loudly  and  hoarsely 
in  her  hearing  as  the  exhaust  of  a  steam-engine.  She 
pressed  a  handkerchief  against  her  trembling  lips. 

Directly  to  the  counter  came  the  footsteps,  and 
paused.  There  was  the  thump  of  something  being 
placed  upon  the  shelf.  Then  deliberately  the  woman 
turned  and  marched  back  to  her  quarters. 

In  time  the  girl   managed   to  regain   enough  con- 


THE    STRONG-BOX  267 

trol  of  her  nerves  to  enable  her  to  rise  and  creep 
out  through  the  office  enclosure  to  the  hall.  Mrs. 
Clover  had  resumed  her  chanting  in  the  kitchen;  but 
Eleanor  was  in  no  mood  to  run  further  chances  just 
then.  She  needed  to  get  away,  to  find  tune  to  compose 
herself  thoroughly.  Pausing  only  long  enough  to  see 
for  herself  what  the  woman  had  deposited  on  the 
counter  (it  was  a  common  oil  lamp,  newly  filled  and 
trimmed,  with  a  box  of  matches  beside  it:  preparations, 
presumably,  against  the  home-coming  of  the  master 
with  a  fresh  consignment  of  booty)  she  flitted  swiftly 
to  and  through  the  door,  closed  it  and  ran  down 
the  steps  to  the  honest,  kindly  earth. 

Here  she  was  safe.  None  suspected  her  adventure  or 
her  discovery.  She  quieted  from  her  excitement,  and 
for  a  long  tune  paced  slowly  to  and  fro,  pondering  ways 
and  means. 

The  fire  ebbed  from  the  heart  of  the  western  sky; 
twilight  merged  imperceptibly  into  a  night  extraor 
dinarily  clear  and  luminous  with  the  gentle  radiance 
of  a  wonderful  pageant  of  stars.  The  calm  held  un 
broken.  The  barking  of  a  dog  on  the  mainland  carried, 
thin  but  sharp,  across  the  waters.  On  the  Sound, 
lights  moved  sedately  east  and  west:  red  lights  and 
green  and  white  lancing  the  waters  with  long  quivering 
blades.  At  times  the  girl  heard  voices  of  men  talking 


268  THE    BANDBOX 

at  a  great  distance.  Once  a  passenger  steamer  crept 
out  of  the  west,  seeming  to  quicken  its  pace  as  it  drew 
abreast  the  island,  then  swept  on  and  away  like  a 
floating  palace  of  fairy  lamps.  As  it  passed,  the  strains 
of  its  string  orchestra  sounded  softly  clear  through  the 
night.  Other  steamers  followed — hah0  a  dozen  in  a 
widely  spaced  procession.  But  no  boat  came  near 
Wreck  Island.  If  one  had,  Eleanor  could  almost  have 
found  courage  to  call  for  help.  .  .  . 

In  due  time  Mrs.  Clover  hunted  her  up,  bringing 
a  lantern  to  guide  her  heavy  footsteps. 

"Lands  sakes!"  she  cried,  catching  sight  of  the  girl. 
41  Wherever  have  you  been  all  this  time?" 

"Just  walking  up  and  down,"  said  Eleanor  quietly. 

"Thank  goodness  I  found  you,"  the  woman  panted. 
"  Give  me  quite  a  turn,  you  did.  7  did  n't  know  but 
what  you  might  be  trying  some  foolish  idea  about 
leaving  us,  like  your  pa  said  you  might.  One  never 
knows  when  to  trust  you  nervous  prostrationists,  or 
what  you  '11  be  up  to  next." 

Eleanor  glanced  at  her  sharply,  wondering  if  by  any 
chance  the  woman's  mind  could  be  as  guileless  as  her 
words  or  the  bland  and  childish  simplicity  of  her  eyes 
in  the  lantern-light. 

"Wish  you  'd  come  up  on  the  stoop  and  keep 
me  company,"  continued  Mrs.  Clover;  "  I  'm  plumb 


THE    STRONG-BOX  269 

tired  ef  sitting  round  all  alone.  Moon  '11  be  up  befere 
long;  it 's  a  purty  sight,  shining  on  the  water." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Eleanor;  "I  'm  afraid  I  'm  too- 
tired.  It  must  be  later  than  I  thought.  If  you  don't 
mind  I  '11  go  to  my  room/' 

"Oh,  please  yourself,"  said  the  woman,  disappoint 
ment  lending  her  tone  an  unpleasant  edge.  "  You  '11 
find  it  hot  and  stuffy  up  there,  though.  If  you  can't 
get  comfortable,  come  down-stairs;  I  '11  be  up  till  the 
boss  gets  home." 

"Very  well,"  said  Eleanor. 

She  said  good  night  to  Mrs.  Clover  on  the  kitchen- 
porch  and  going  to  her  room,  threw  herself  upon  the 
bed,  dressed  as  she  was. 

For  some  time  the  woman  down-stairs  rocked  slowly 
on  the  porch,  humming  sonorously.  The  sound  was 
infinitely  soothing.  Eleanor  had  some  difficulty  in 
keeping  awake,  and  only  managed  to  do  so  by  dint  of 
continually  exciting  her  imagination  with  thoughts  of 
the  Cadogan  collar  in  the  safe,  the  key  in  the  newel- 
post,  the  dory  swinging  at  its  moorings  in  water  little 
more  than  waist-deep.  .  .  . 

In  spite  of  all  this,  she  did  as  the  slow  hours  lagged 
drift  into  a  half-waking  nap.  How  long  it  lasted  she 
could  n't  guess  when  she  wakened;  but  it  had  not  been 
too  long;  a  glance  at  the  dial  of  her  wrist-watch  in 


270  THE    BANDBOX 

a  slant  of  moonlight  through  the  window  reassured 
her  as  to  the  flight  of  time.  It  was  nearly  midnight; 
she  had  three  hours  left,  three  hours  leeway  before 
the  return  of  her  persecutor. 

She  lay  without  moving,  listening  attentively.  The 
house  was  anything  but  still;  ghosts  of  forgotten  foot 
steps  haunted  all  its  stairs  and  corridors;  but  the  girl 
could  hear  no  sound  ascribable  to  human  agency.  Mrs. 
Clover  no  longer  sang,  her  rocking-chair  no  longer 
creaked. 

With  infinite  precautions  she  got  up  and  slipped  out 
of  the  room.  Once  in  the  hallway  she  did  hear  a  noise 
of  which  she  easily  guessed  the  source;  and  the  choir 
ing  of  angels  could  have  been  no  more  sweet  in  her 
hearing :  Mrs.  Clover  was  snoring. 

Kneeling  at  the  head  of  the  staircase  and  bending 
over,  with  an  arm  round  the  banister  for  support,  she 
could  see  a  portion  of  the  kitchen.  And  what  she 
saw  only  confirmed  the  testimony  of  the  snores.  The 
woman  had  moved  indoors  to  read;  an  oil  lamp  stood 
by  her  shoulder,  on  the  table;  her  chair  was  well  tilted, 
her  head  resting  against  its  back;  an  old  magazine 
lay  open  on  her  lap;  her  chin  had  fallen;  from  her 
mouth  issued  dissonant  chords  of  contentment. 

Eleanor  drew  back,  rose  and  felt  her  way  to  the 
long  corridor.  Down  this  she  stole  as  silently  as  any 


THE    STRONG-BOX  271 

ghost,  wholly  indifferent  to  the  eerie  influences  of  the 
desolate  place,  spectrally  illuminated  as  it  was  with 
faded  chequers  of  moonlight  falling  through  dingy  win 
dows,  alive  as  it  was  with  the  groans  and  complaints 
of  uneasy  planks  and  timbers  and  the  frou-frou,  like 
that  of  silken  skirts,  of  rats  and  mice  scuttling  between 
its  flimsy  walls.  These  counted  for  nothing  to  her; 
but  all  her  soul  hung  on  the  continuance  of  that  noise 
of  snoring  in  the  kitchen;  and  time  and  again  she 
paused  and  listened,  breathless,  until  sure  it  was  holding 
on  without  interruption. 

Gaining  at  length  the  head  of  the  stairs,  she  picked 
her  way  down  very  gently,  her  heart  thumping  madly 
as  the  burden  of  her  weight  wrung  from  each  individual 
step  its  personal  protest,  loud  enough  (she  felt)  to 
wake  the  dead  in  their  graves;  but  not  loud  enough, 
it  seemed,  to  disturb  the  slumbers  of  the  excellent,  if 
untrustworthy,  Mrs.  Clover. 

At  length  she  had  gained  the  newel-post  and  ab 
stracted  the  key.  The  foretaste  of  success  was  sweet. 
Pausing  only  long  enough  to  unlatch  the  front  door, 
for  escape  in  emergency,  she  darted  through  the  hall, 
behind  the  counter,  into  the  little  room. 

And  still  Mrs.  Clover  slept  aloud. 

Kneeling,  Eleanor  fitted  the  key  to  the  lock.  Happily, 
it  was  well  oiled  and  in  excellent  working  order.  The 


THE    BANDBOX 

tumblers  gave  to  the  insistence  of  the  wards  with  the 
softest  of  dull  clicks.  She  grasped  the  handle,  and 
the  heavy  door  swung  wide  without  a  murmur. 

And  then  she  paused,  at  a  loss.  It  was  densely  dark 
in  the  little  room,  and  she  required  to  be  able  to  see 
what  she  was  about,  if  she  were  to  pick  out  the  Cadogan 
collar. 

It  was  risky,  a  hazardous  chance,  but  she  determined 
to  run  it.  The  lamp  that  Mrs.  Clover  had  left  for  her 
employer  was  too  convenient  to  be  rejected.  Eleanor 
brought  it  into  the  room,  carefully  shut  the  door  to 
prevent  the  light  being  visible  from  the  hall,  should 
Mrs.  Clover  wake  and  miss  her,  placed  the  lamp  on 
the  floor  before  the  safe  and  lighted  it. 

As  its  soft  illumination  disclosed  the  interior  of  the 
antiquated  strong-box,  the  girl  uttered  a  low  cry  of 
dismay.  To  pick  out  what  she  sought  from  that  ac 
cumulation  (even  if  it  were  really  there)  would  be  the 
work  of  hours  —  barring  a  most  happy  and  unlikely 
stroke  of  fortune. 

The  interior  of  the  safe  was  divided  into  some  twelve 
pigeon-holes,  all  closely  packed  with  parcels  of  vari 
ous  sizes  —  brown-paper  parcels,  neatly  wrapped  and 
tied  with  cord,  each  as  neatly  labelled  in  ink  with 
an  indecipherable  hieroglyphic:  presumably  a  means 
of  identification  to  one  intimate  with  the  code, 


She  turned  in  time  to  see  the  door  open  and  the  face  and 
figure  of  her  father 

Page  274 


THE    STRONG-BOX  273 

But  Eleanor  possessed  no  means  of  telling  one  package 
from  another;  they  were  all  so  similar  to  one  another 
in  everything  save  size,  in  which  they  differed  only 
slightly,  hardly  materially. 

None  the  less,  having  dared  so  much,  she  wasn't 
of  the  stuff  to  give  up  the  attempt  without  at  least  a 
little  effort  to  find  what  she  sought.  And  impulsively 
she  selected  the  first  package  that  fell  under  her  hand, 
with  nervous  fingers  unwrapped  it  and  —  found  her 
self  admiring  an  extremely  handsome  diamond  brooch. 

As  if  it  had  been  a  handful  of  pebbles,  she  cast  it 
from  her  to  blaze  despised  upon  the  mean  plank  flooring, 
and  selected  another  package. 

It  contained  rings  —  three  gold  rings  set  with  soli 
taire  diamonds.  They  shared  the  fate  of  the  brooch. 

The  next  packet  held  a  watch.  This,  too,  she  dropped 
contemptuously,  hurrying  on. 

She  had  no  method,  other  than  to  take  the  upper 
most  packets  from  each  pigeonhole,  on  the  theory 
that  the  necklace  had  been  one  of  the  last  articles 
entrusted  to  the  safe.  And  that  there  was  some  sense 
in  this  method  was  demonstrated  when  she  opened  the 
ninth  package  —  or  possibly  the  twelfth:  she  was  too 
busy  and  excited  to  keep  any  sort  of  count. 

This  last  packet,  however,  revealed  the  Cadogan 
collar. 


274  THE    BANDBOX 

With  a  little,  thankful  sigh  the  girl  secreted  the  thing 
in  the  bosom  of  her  dress  and  prepared  to  rise. 

Behind  her  a  board  creaked  and  the  doorlatch 
clicked.  Still  sitting  —  heart  in  her  mouth,  breath  at 
a  standstill,  blood  chilling  with  fright  —  she  turned  in 
time  to  see  the  door  open  and  the  face  and  figure  of 
her  father  as  he  stood  looking  down  at  her,  his  eyes 
blinking  in  the  glare  of  light  that  painted  a  gleam 
along  the  polished  barrel  of  the  weapon  in  his  hand. 


XV 

THE  ENEMY'S  HAND 

IN  spite  of  the  somewhat  abrupt  and  cavalier  fash 
ion  in  which  Staff  had  parted  from  Alison  at 
the  St.  Simon,  he  was  obliged  to  meet  her  again  that 
afternoon  at  the  offices  of  Jules  Max,  to  discuss  and 
select  the  cast  for  A  Single  Woman.  The  memory  which 
each  retained  of  their  earlier  meeting  naturally  rankled, 
and  the  amenities  suffered  proportionately.  In  jus 
tice  to  Staff  it  must  be  set  down  that  he  was  n't  the 
aggressor;  his  contract  with  Max  stipulated  that  he 
should  have  the  deciding  word  in  the  selection  of  the 
cast  —  aside  from  the  leading  role,  of  course  —  and 
when  Alison  chose,  as  she  invariably  did,  to  try  to 
usurp  that  function,  the  author  merely  stood  calmly 
and  with  imperturbable  courtesy  upon  his  rights.  In 
consequence,  it  was  Alison  who  made  the  conference 
so  stormy  a  one  that  Max  more  than  once  threatened 
to  tear  his  hair,  and  as  a  matter  of  fact  did  make  futile 
grabs  at  the  meagre  fringe  surrounding  his  bald  spot. 
So  the  meeting  inevitably  ended  in  an  armed  truce, 

275 


276  THE    BANDBOX 

with  no  business  accomplished:  Staff  offering  to  re 
lease  Max  from  his  contract  to  produce,  the  manager 
frantically  begging  hi™  to  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  and 
Alison  making  vague  but  disquieting  remarks  about 
her  inclination  to  "rest."  .  .  . 

Staff  dined  alone,  with  disgust  of  his  trade  for  a 
sauce  to  his  food.  And,  being  a  man  —  which  is  as 
much  as  to  say,  a  creature  without  much  real  under 
standing  of  his  own  private  emotional  existence  —  he 
wagged  his  head  in  solemn  amazement  because  he 
had  once  thought  he  could  love  a  woman  like  that. 

Now  Eleanor  Searle  was  a  different  sort  of  a  girl 
altogether.  .  .  . - 

Not  that  he  had  any  right  to  think  of  her  in  that 
light;  only,  Alison  had  chosen  to  seem  jealous  of  the 
girl.  Heaven  alone  (he  called  it  honestly  to  witness) 
knew  why.  .  .  . 

Not  that  he  cared  whether  Alison  were  jealous  or 
not.  .  .  . 

But  he  was  surprised  at  his  solicitude  for  Miss  Searle 
—  now  that  Alison  had  made  him  think  of  her.  He 
was  really  more  anxious  about  her  than  he  had  sus 
pected.  She  had  seemed  to  like  him,  the  few  times 
they'd  met;  and  he  had  liked  her  very  well  indeed; 
it 's  refreshing  to  meet  a  woman  in  whom  beauty  and 
sensibility  are  combined;  the  combination's  piquant, 


THE    ENEMY'S    HAND        277 

when  you  come  to  consider  how  uncommon  it 
is.  ... 

He  did  n't  believe  for  an  instant  that  she  had  meant 
to  run  away  with  the  Cadogan  collar;  and  he  hoped 
fervently  that  she  had  n't  been  involved  in  any  serious 
trouble  by  the  qualified  thing.  Furthermore,  he  can 
didly  wished  he  might  be  permitted  to  help  extricate 
her,  if  she  were  really  tangled  up  in  any  unpleasantness. 

Such,  at  all  events,  was  the  general  tone  of  his  medi 
tations  throughout  dinner  and  his  homeward  stroll 
down  Fifth  Avenue  from  Forty-fourth  Street,  a  stroll 
in  which  he  cast  himself  for  the  part  of  the  misprized 
hero;  and  made  himself  look  it  to  the  life  by  sticking  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  carrying  his  cane  at  a  despondent 
angle  beneath  one  arm,  resting  his  chin  on  his  chest  — 
or  as  nearly  there  as  was  practicable  if  he  cared  to 
escape  being  strangled  by  his  collar  —  and  permitting 
a  cigarette  to  dangle  dejectedly  from  his  lips.  .  .  . 

He  arrived  in  front  of  his  lodgings  at  nine  o'clock 
or  something  later.  And  as  he  started  up  the  brown- 
stone  stoop  he  became  aware  of  a  disconsolate  little 
figure  hunched  up  on  the  topmost  step;  which  was 
Mr.  Iff. 

The  little  man  had  his  chin  in  his  hands  and  his  hat 
pulled  down  over  his  eyes.  He  rose  as  Staff  came  up 
the  steps  and  gave  him  good  evening  in  a  spiritless 


278  THE    BANDBOX 

tone  which  he  promptly  remedied  by  the  acid 
observation: 

"  It 's  a  pity  you  would  n't  try  to  be  home  when  I 
call.  Here  you've  kept  me  waiting  the  best  part  of 
an  hour." 

"Sorry,"  said  Staff  gravely;  "but  why  stand  on 
ceremony  at  this  late  day?  My  bedroom  windows  are 
still  open;  I  left  'em  so,  fancying  you  might  prefer  to 
come  in  that  way." 

"  It 's  a  pity,"  commented  Iff,  following  him  upstairs, 
"you  can't  do  something  for  that  oratorical  weakness 
of  yours.  Ever  try  choking  it  down?  Or  would  that 
make  you  ill?" 

With  which  he  seemed  content  to  abandon  persi 
flage,  satisfied  that  his  average  for  acerbity  was  still 
high.  "Besides,"  he  said  peaceably,  "I'm  all  dressed 
up  pretty  now,  and  it  does  n't  look  right  for  a  respec 
table  member  of  society  to  be  pulling  off  second-story 
man  stunts." 

Staff  led  him  into  the  study,  turned  on  the  lights, 
then  looked  his  guest  over. 

So  far  as  his  person  was  involved,  it  was  evident  that 
Iff  had  employed  Staff's  American  money  to  advantage. 
He  wore,  with  the  look  of  one  fresh  from  thorough 
grooming  at  a  Turkish  bath,  a  new  suit  of  dark  clothes. 
But  when  he  had  thrown  aside  his  soft  felt  hat,  his  face 


THE    ENEMY'S    HAND        279 

showed  drawn,  pinched  and  haggard,  the  face  of  a  man 
whose  sufferings  are  of  the  spirit  rather  than  of  the  body. 
Loss  of  sleep  might  have  accounted  in  part  for  that 
expression,  but  not  for  all  of  it. 

"What's  the  matter?"  demanded  Staff,  deeply 
concerned. 

"You  ask  me  that!"  said  Iff  impatiently.  He  threw 
himself  at  length  upon  the  divan.  "Have  n't  you  been 
to  the  St.  Simon?  Don't  you  know  what  has  happened? 
Well,  so  have  I,  and  so  do  I." 

"Well  .  .  .  ?" 

Iff  raised  himself  on  his  elbow  to  stare  at  Staff  as 
if  questioning  his  sanity. 

"You  know  she  's  gone  —  that  she  's  in  his  hands  — 
and  you  have  the  face  to  stand  there  and  say  'Wel-l?' 
to  me!"  he  snapped. 

"  But  —  good  Lord,  man !  —  what  is  Miss  Searle  to 
you  that  you  should  get  so  excited  about  her  disap 
pearance,  even  assuming  what  we  're  not  sure  of  — 
that  she  decamped  with  Ismay?" 

"She's  only  everything  to  me,"  said  Iff  quietly: 
"she  's  my  daughter." 

Staff  slumped  suddenly  into  a  chair. 

"You  're  serious  about  that?"  he  gasped. 

"  It 's  not  a  matter  I  care  to  joke  about,"  said  the 
little  man  gloomily. 


280  THE    BANDBOX 

"But  why  did  n't  you  tell  a  fellow  .  .  .   1" 

"Why  should  I  —  until  now?  You  mustn't  forget 
that  you  sat  in  this  room  not  twenty-four  hours  ago 
and  listened  to  me  retail  what  I  admit  sounded  like  the 
damnedest  farrago  of  lies  that  was  ever  invented  since 
the  world  began;  and  because  you  were  a  good  fellow 
and  a  gentleman,  you  stood  for  it — gave  me  the  benefit 
of  the  doubt.  And  at  that  I  hadn't  told  you  half. 
Why?  Why,  because  I  felt  I  had  put  sufficient  strain 
upon  your  credulity  for  one  session  at  least." 

"Yes  —  I  know,"  Staff  agreed,  bewildered;  "but  — 
but  Miss  Searle  —  your  daughter  —  ! " 

"That's  a  hard  one  for  you  to  swallow what? 

I  don't  blame  you.  But  it 's  true.  And  that 's  why 
I  'm  all  worked  up  —  half  crazed  by  my  knowledge  that 
that  infamous  blackguard  has  managed  to  deceive  her 
and  make  her  believe  he  is  me  —  myself  —  her  father." 

"But  what  makes  you  think  that?" 

"  Oh,  I  Ve  his  word  for  it.    Read ! " 

Iff  whipped  an  envelope  from  his  pocket  and  flipped 
it  over  to  Staff.  "He  knew,  of  course,  where  I  get 
my  letters  when  in  town,  and  took  a  chance  of  that 
catching  me  there  and  poisoning  the  sunlight  for 
me." 

Staff  turned  the  envelope  over  in  his  hands,  remark 
ing  the  name,  address,  postmark  and  special  delivery 


stamp.  "Mailed  at  Hartford,  Connecticut,  at  nine 
this  morning,"  he  commented. 

"Read  it/'  insisted  Iff  irritably. 

Staff  withdrew  the  enclosure :  a  single  sheet  of  note- 
paper  with  a  few  words  scrawled  on  one  side. 

" '  I  've  got  her, ' "  he  read  aloud.  " '  She  thinks  I  'm 
you.  Is  this  sufficient  warning  to  you  to  keep  out  of 
this  game?  If  not  —  you  know  what  to  expect." 

He  looked  from  the  note  back  to  Iff.  "What  does 
he  mean  by  that?  " 

"How  can  I  tell?  It 's  a  threat,  and  that 's  enough 
for  me;  he 's  capable  of  anything  fiendish  enough  to 
amuse  him."  He  shook  his  clenched  fists  impotently 
above  his  head.  "  Oh,  if  ever  again  I  get  within  arm's 
length  of  the  hound  .  .  .  !" 

"Look  here,"  said  Staff;  "I'm  a  good  deal  in  the 
dark  about  this  business.  You  Ve  got  to  calm  your 
self  and  help  me  out.  Now*  you  say  Miss  Searle  's 
your  daughter;  yet  you  were  on  the  ship  together  and 
did  n't  recognise  one  another  —  at  least,  so  far  as  I 
could  see." 

"You  don't  see  everything,"  said  Iff;  "but  at  that, 
you  're  right  —  she  did  n't  recognise  me.  She  has  n't 
for  years  —  seven  years,  to  be  exact.  It  was  seven 
years  ago  that  she  ran  away  from  me  and  changed  her 
name.  And  it  was  all  his  doing!  I  've  told  you  that 


282  THE    BANDBOX 

Ismay  has,  in  his  jocular  way,  made  a  practice  of  cast 
ing  suspicion  on  me.  Well,  the  thing  got  so  bad  that 
he  made  her  believe  I  was  the  criminal  in  the  family. 
So,  being  the  right  sort  of  a  girl,  she  could  n't  live  with 
me  any  longer  and  she  just  naturally  shook  me — • 
went  to  Paris  to  study  singing  and  fit  herself  to  earn  a 
living.  I  followed  her,  pleaded  with  her,  but  she 
could  n't  be  made  to  understand;  so  I  had  to  give  it 
up.  And  that  was  when  I  registered  my  oath  to 
follow  this  cur  to  the  four  corners  of  the  earth,  if  need 
be,  and  wait  my  chance  to  trip  him  up,  expose  him 
and  clear  myself.  And  now  he 's  finding  the  going  a 
bit  rough,  thanks  to  my  public-spirited  endeavours, 
and  he  takes  this  means  of  tying  my  hands!" 

"I  should  think,"  said  Staff,  "you'd  have  shot 
him  long  before  this." 

"Precisely,"  agreed  Iff  mockingly.  "That's  just 
where  the  bone-headedness  comes  in  that  so  endears 
you  to  your  friends.  If  I  killed  him,  where  would  be 
my  chance  to  prove  I  had  n't  been  guilty  of  the  crimes 
he  's  laid  at  my  door?  He  's  realised  that,  all  along.  .  .  . 
I  passed  him  on  deck  one  night,  coming  over;  it  was 
midnight  and  we  were  alone;  the  temptation  to  lay 
hands  on  him  and  drop  him  overboard  was  almost 
irresistible  —  and  he  knew  it  and  laughed  in  my  face! 
.  .  .  And  that 's  the  true  reason  why  I  did  n't  accuse 


THE    ENEMY'S    HAND        283 

him  when  I  was  charged  with  the  theft  of  the  necklace 
—  because  I  could  n't  prove  anything  and  a  trumped- 
up  accusation  that  fell  through  would  only  make  my 
case  the  worse  in  Nelly's  sight.  .  .  .  But  I  '11  get 
him  yet!" 

"Have  you  thought  of   going  to  Hartford?" 

"I'm  no  such  fool.  If  that  letter  was  posted  in 
Hartford  this  morning,  it  means  that  Ismay's  in  Phila 
delphia." 

"  But  is  n't  he  wise  enough  to  know  you  'd  think 
just  that?" 

Iff  sat  up  with  a  flush  of  excitement.  "By  George!" 
he  cried  —  "there  's  something  in  that!" 

"  It 's  a  chance,"  said  Staff  thoughtfully. 

The  little  man  jumped  up  and  began  to  pace  the 
floor.  To  and  fro,  from  the  hall-door  to  the  windows, 
he  strode.  At  perhaps  the  seventh  turn  at  the  windows 
he  paused,  looking  out,  then  moved  quickly  back  to 
Staff's  side. 

"Taxicab  stopping  outside,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice:  "woman  getting  out  —  Miss  Landis,  I  think. 
If  you  don't  mind,  I  '11  dodge  into  your  bed 
room." 

"By  all  means,"  assented  his  host,  rising. 

Iff  swung  out  of  sight  into  the  back  room  as  Staff 
went  to  and  opened  the  hall-door. 


284 

Alison  had  just  gained  the  head  of  the  stairs.  She 
came  to  the  study  door,  moving  with  her  indolent 
grace,  acknowledging  his  greeting  with  an  insolent, 
cool  nod. 

"Not  too  late,  I  trust?"  she  said  enigmatically. 

"For  what?"  asked  Staff,  puzzled. 

"For  this  appointment,"  she  said,  extending  a 
folded  bit  of  paper. 

"Appointment?"  he  repeated  with  the  rising  in 
flection,  taking  the  paper. 

"It  was  delivered  at  my  hotel  half  an  hour  ago," 
she  told  him.  "I  presumed  you  ..." 

"No,"  said  Staff.    "Half  a  minute.  ..." 

He  shut  the  door  and  unfolded  the  note.  The  paper 
and  the  chirography,  he  noticed,  were  identical  with 
those  of  the  note  received  by  Iff  from  Hartford.  With 
this  settled  to  his  satisfaction,  he  read  the  contents 
aloud,  raising  his  voice  a  trifle  for  the  benefit  of  the 
listener  in  the  back  room. 

" '  If  Miss  Landis  wishes  to  arrange  for  the  return  of 
the  Cadogan  collar,  will  she  be  kind  enough  to  call  at 
Mr.  Staff's  rooms  in  Thirtieth  Street  at  a  quarter  to  ten 
tonight. 

"  '  N.  B.  —  Any  attempt  to  bring  the  police  or  private 
detectives  or  other  outsiders  into  the  negotiations  will  be 
instantly  known  to  the  writer  and  —  there  won't  be  any 
party.' 


THE    ENEMY'S    HAND        285 

"  Unsigned,"  said  Staff  reflectively. 

"Well?"  demanded  Alison,  seating  herself. 

"Curious,"   remarked  Staff,   still  thinking. 

"Well?"  she  iterated  less  patiently.  "Is  it  a  practi 
cal  joke?" 

"No,"  he  said,  smiling;  "to  me  it  looks  like 
business." 

"  You  mean  that  the  thief  intends  to  come  here  — 
to  bargain  with  me?  " 

"I  should  fancy  so,  from  what  he  says.  .  .  .  And," 
Staff  added,  crossing  to  his  desk,  "forewarned  is  fore 
armed." 

He  bent  over  and  pulled  out  the  drawer  containing 
his  revolver.  At  the  same  moment  he  heard  Alison 
catch  her  breath  sharply,  and  a  man's  voice  replied 
to  his  platitude. 

"Not  always,"  it  said  crisply.  "Be  good  enough  to 
leave  that  gun  lay  —  just  hold  up  your  hands,  where 
I  can  see  them,  and  come  away  from  that  desk." 

Staff  laughed  shortly  and  swung  smartly  round, 
exposing  empty  hands.  In  the  brief  instant  in  which 
his  back  had  been  turned  a  man  had  let  himself  into 
the  study  from  the  hall.  He  stood  now  with  his 
back  to  the  door,  covering  Staff  with  an  automatic 
pistol. 

"Come  away,"  he  said  in  a  peremptory  tone,  em- 


£86  THE    BANDBOX 

phasising  his  meaning  with  a  flourish  of  the  weapon. 
"Over  here  —  by  Miss  Landis,  if  you  please." 

Quietly  Staff  obeyed.  He  had  knocked  about  the 
world  long  enough  to  recognise  the  tone  of  a  man 
talking  business  with  a  gun.  He  placed  himself  beside 
Alison's  chair  and  waited,  wondering. 

Indeed,  he  was  very  much  perplexed  and  disturbed. 
For  the  first  time  since  Iff  had  won  his  confidence 
against  his  better  judgment,  his  faith  in  the  little  man 
was  being  shaken.  This  high-handed  intruder  was  so 
close  a  counterpart  of  Mr.  Iff  that  one  had  to  look  twice 
to  distinguish  the  difference,  and  then  found  the  points 
of  variance  negligible  —  so  much  so  that  the  fellow 
might  well  be  Iff  in  different  clothing  and  another 
manner.  And  Iff  could  easily  have  slipped  out  of  the 
bedroom  by  its  hall  door.  Only,  to  shift  his  clothes 
so  quickly  he  would  have  to  be  a  lightning-change 
artist  of  exceptional  ability. 

On  the  whole,  Staff  decided,  this  could  n't  be  Iff. 
And  yet  .  .  .  and  yet  .  .  . 

"You  may  put  up  that  pistol,"  he  said  coolly.  "  I'm 
not  going  to  jump  you,  so  it 's  unnecessary.  Besides, 
it 's  bad  form  with  a  lady  present.  And  finally,  if  you 
should  happen  to  let  it  off  the  racket  would  bring 
the  police  down  on  you  more  quickly  than  you  'd  like, 
I  fancy." 


THE    ENEMY'S    HAND        287 

The  man  grinned  and  shoved  the  weapon  into  a 
pocket  from  which  its  grip  projected  handily. 

"Something  in  what  you  say,"  he  assented.  "Be 
sides,  I  'm  quick,  surprisingly  quick  with  my  hands." 

"Part  of  your  professional  equipment,  no  doubt," 
commented  Staff  indifferently. 

"Admit  it,"  said  the  other  easily.  He  turned  his 
attention  to  Alison.  "Well,  Miss  Landis  .  .  .  ?" 

"Well,  Mr.  Iff?"  she  returned  in  the  same  tone. 

"No,"  he  corrected;    "not  Iff  —  Ismay." 

"So  you've  changed  identities  again!" 

"Surely  you  don't  mind?"  he  said,  grinning  over 
the  evasion. 

"But  you  denied  being  Ismay  aboard  the  Autocratic." 

"My  dear  lady,  you  could  n't  reasonably  expect 
me  to  plead  guilty  to  a  crime  which  I  had  not  yet 
committed. " 

"Oh,  get  down  to  business!"  Staff  interrupted 
impatiently.  "You're  wasting  time  —  yours  as  well 
as  ours." 

"Peevish  person,  your  young  friend,"  Ismay  com 
mented  confidentially  to  Alison.  "  Still,  there  's  some 
thing  in  what  he  says.  Shall  we  —  ah  —  begin  to 
negotiate?" 

"I  think  you  may  as  well,"  she  agreed  coldly. 

"Very  well,  then.    The  case  is  simple  enough.    I  'm 


288  THE    BANDBOX 

here  to  offer  to  secure  the  return  of  the  Cadogan  collar 
for  an  appropriate  reward." 

"Ten  thousand  dollars  has  been  offered,"  she  began. 

"Not  half  enough,  my  dear  lady,"  he  interposed. 
"You  insult  the  necklace  by  naming  such  a  meagre 
sum  —  to  say  nothing  of  undervaluing  my  intelligence." 

"So  that 's  it!"  she  said  reflectively. 

"That  is  it,  precisely.  I  am  in  communication  with 
the  person  who  stole  your  necklace;  she  's  willing  to 
return  it  for  a  reward  of  reasonable  size." 

"She?    You  mean  Miss  Searle?" 

The  man  made  a  deprecating  gesture.  "Please 
don't  ask  me  to  name  the  lady.  ..." 

"I  knew  it!"  Alison  cried  triumphantly. 

"You  puppy!"  Staff  exclaimed.  "Have  n't  you  the 
common  manhood  to  shoulder  the  responsibility  for 
your  crimes  yourself? " 

"Tush,"  said  the  man  gently  —  "tush!  Not  a 
pretty  way  to  talk  at  all  —  calling  names!  I  'm  sur 
prised.  Besides,  I  ought  to  know  better  than  you, 
acting  as  I  do  as  agent  for  the  lady  in  question." 

"That 's  a  flat  lie,"  said  Staff.  "If  you  repeat  it 
—  I  warn  you  —  I  '11  jump  you  as  sure  's  my  name  's 
Staff,  pistol  or  no  pistol!" 

"Are  n't  you  rather  excited  in  your  defence  of  this 
woman?"  Alison  turned  on  him  with  a  curling  lip. 


THE    ENEMY'S    HAND        289 

"I  Ve  a  right  to  my  emotions,"  he  retorted  —  "to 
betray  them  as  I  see  fit." 

"And  I,"  Ismay  put  it,  "to  my  freedom  of 
speech  — " 

"Not  in  my  rooms,"  Staff  interrupted  hotly.  "I  Ve 
warned  you.  Drop  this  nonsense  about  Miss  Searle 
if  you  want  to  stop  here  another  minute  without  a 
fight.  Drop  it!  Say  what  you  want  to  say  to  Miss 
Landis and  get  out!" 

He  was  thoroughly  enraged,  and  his  manner  of 
expressing  himself  seemed  to  convince  the  thief.  With 
a  slight  shrug  of  his  shoulders  he  again  addressed 
himself  directly  to  Alison. 

"In  the  matter  of  the  reward,"  he  said,  "we're 
of  the  opinion  that  you  Ve  offered  too  little  by  half. 
Twenty  thousand  at  the  least — " 

"You  forget  I  have  the  duty  to  pay." 

"My  dear  lady,  if  you  had  not  been  anxious  to 
evade  payment  of  the  duty  you  would  be  enjoying 
the  ownership  of  your  necklace  today." 

As  he  spoke  the  telephone-bell  rang.  Staff  turned 
away  to  his  desk,  Ismay's  voice  pursuing  him  with 
the  caution. 

"Don't  forget  about  that  open  drawer  —  keep 
your  hands  away  from  it." 

"Oh,    be   quiet,"    returned    Staff   contemptuously. 


290  THE    BANDBOX 

Standing  with  his  back  to  them,  he  took  up  the  in 
strument  and  lifted  off  the  receiver. 

"Hello?"  he  said  irritably. 

He  was  glad  that  his  face  was  not  visible  to  his 
guests;  he  could  restrain  a  start  of  surprise,  but  was 
afraid  his  expression  would  have  betrayed  him  when 
he  recognised  the  voice  at  the  other  end  of  the  line 
as  Iff's. 

"Don't  repeat  my  name,"  it  said  quickly  hi  a  tone 
low  but  clear.  "That  is  Iff.  Ismay  still  there?" 

"Yes,"  said  Staff  instantly:  "it's  I,  Harry.  How 
are  you?" 

"  Get  rid  of  him  as  quick  's  you  can,"  Iff  continued, 
"  and  join  me  here  at  the  Park  Avenue.  I  dodged  down 
the  fire-escape  and  caught  his  motor-car;  his  chauffeur 
thinks  I  'm  him.  I  '11  wait  in  the  street  —  Thirty- 
third  Street  side,  with  the  car.  Now  talk." 

"All  right,"  said  Staff  heartily;  "glad  to.  I'll 
be  there." 

"Chauffeur  knows  where  Nelly  is,  I  think;  but  he  's 
too  big  for  me  to  handle  alone,  in  case  my  foot  slips 
and  he  gets  suspicious.  That 's  why  I  need  you. 
Bring  your  gun." 

"Right,"  Staff  agreed  promptly.  "The  club  in  half 
an  hour.  Yes,  I  '11  come.  Good-bye." 

He  turned  back  toward  Ismay  and  Alison,  his  doubts 


THE    ENEMY'S     HAND       291 

resolved,  all  his  vague  misgivings  as  to  this  case  of 
double  identity  settled  finally  and  forever. 

"Alison,"  he  said,  breaking  in  roughly  upon  some 
thing  Ismay  was  saying  to  the  girl,  "you  Ve  a  cab 
waiting  outside,  have  n't  you?  " 

Alison  stared  in  surprise.  "Yes,"  she  said  in  a  tone 
of  wonder. 

Staff  paused  beside  the  divan,  one  hand  resting  upon 
the  topmost  of  a  little  heap  of  silken  cushions.  "Mind 
if  I  borrow  it?"  he  asked,  ignoring  the  man. 

"No,  but— " 

"It's  business  —  important,"  said  Staff.  "I'll 
have  to  leave  you  here  at  once.  Only "  —  he  watched 
Ismay  closely  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes  —  "if  I 
were  you  I  would  n't  waste  any  more  time  on  this 
fellow.  He 's  bluffing  —  can't  carry  out  anything 
he  promises." 

Ismay  turned  toward  him,  expostulant. 

"What  d'you  mean  by  that?"  he  demanded. 

"Miss  Searle  has  escaped,"  said  Staff  deliberately. 

"No!"  cried  Ismay,  startled  and  thrown  off  his  guard 
by  the  fear  it  might  be  so.  " Impossible! " 

"Think  so?"  As  he  spoke  Staff  dextrously  snatched 
up  the  uppermost  pillow  and  with  a  twist  of  his  hand 
sent  it  whirling  into  the  thief's  face. 

It  took  him  utterly  unawares.     His  arms  flew  up 


292  THE    BANDBOX 

too  late  to  ward  it  off,  and  he  staggered  back  a 
pace. 

"Lots  of  impossible  things  keep  happening  all  the 
time,"  chuckled  Staff  as  he  closed  in. 

There  was  hardly  a  struggle.  Staff's  left  arm  clipped 
the  man  about  the  waist  at  the  same  tune  that 
his  right  hand  deftly  abstracted  the  pistol  from  its 
convenient  pocket.  Then,  dropping  the  weapon  into 
his  own  pocket,  he  transferred  his  hold  to  Ismay's  col 
lar  and  spun  him  round  with  a  snap  that  fairly  jarred 
his  teeth. 

"  There,  confound  you ! "  he  said,  exploring  his  pockets 
for  other  lethal  weapons  and  finding  nothing  but 
three  loaded  clips  ready  to  be  inserted  in  the  hollow 
butt  of  the  pistol  already  confiscated.  "  Now  what  'm 
I  going  to  do  with  you,  you  blame'  little  pest?" 

The  question  was  more  to  himself  than  to  Ismay, 
but  the  latter,  recovering  with  astonishing  quickness, 
answered  Staff  by  suddenly  squirming  out  of  his  coat 
and  leaving  it  in  his  assailant's  hands  as  he  ducked  to 
the  door  and  flung  himself  out. 

Staff  broke  into  a  laugh  as  the  patter  of  the  little 
man's  feet  was  heard  on  the  stairs. 

"Resourceful  beggar,"  he  commented,  going  to 
the  window  and  rolling  up  the  coat  as  he  went.  He 
reached  it  just  in  time  to  see  the  thief  dodge  out. 


THE    ENEMY'S    HAND        293 

The  coat,  opening  as  it  descended,  fell  like  a 
blanket  round  Ismay's  head.  He  stumbled,  tripped 
and  fell  headlong  down  the  steps,  sprawling  and 
cursing. 

"Thought  you  might  need  it,"  Staff  apologised  as 
the  man  picked  himself  up  and  darted  away. 

He  turned  to  confront  an  infuriated  edition  of  Alison. 

"Why  did  you  do  that? "  she  demanded  with  a  stamp 
of  her  foot.  "What  right  had  you  to  interfere?  I 
was  beating  him  down;  in  another  minute  we  'd  have 
come  to  terms — " 

"Oh,  don't  be  silly,  my  dear,"  said  Staff,  taking 
his  revolver  from  the  desk-drawer  and  placing  it  in 
the  hip-pocket  of  tradition.  "To  begin  with,  I  don't 
mind  telling  you  I  don't  give  much  of  a  whoop  whether 
you  ever  get  that  necklace  back  or  not."  He  grabbed 
his  hat  and  started  for  the  door.  "  What  I  'm  interested 
in  is  the  rescue  of  Miss  Searle,  if  you  must  know;  and 
that 's  going  to  happen  before  long,  or  I  miss  my 
guess."  He  paused  at  the  open  door.  "If  we  get 
her,  we  get  the  necklace,  of  course  —  and  the  Lord 
knows  you  '11  be  welcome  to  that.  Would  you  mind 
turning  out  the  lights  before  you  go?" 

"Staff!" 

Her  tone  was  so  peremptory  that  he  hesitated  an 
unwelcome  moment  longer. 


294  THE    BANDBOX 

"Well?"  he  asked  civilly,  wondering  what  on  earth 
she  had  found  to  fly  into  such  a  beastly  rage  about. 

"You  know  what  this  means?" 

"You  tell  me,"  he  smiled. 

"  It  means  the  break;  I  won't  play  A  Single  Woman!  " 
she  snapped. 

"That 's  the  best  guess  you  've  made  yet,"  he 
laughed.  "You  win.  Good  night  and  —  good-bye." 


XVI 

NINETY  MINUTES 

COMMANDEERING  Alison's  taxicab  with  the 
promise  of  an  extra  tip,  Staff  jumped  in  and 
shut  the  door.  As  they  swung  into  Fourth  Avenue, 
he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Ismay's  slight  figure  standing 
on  the  corner,  his  pose  expressive  of  indecision  and 
uncertainty;  and  Staff  smiled  to  himself,  surmising 
that  it  was  there  that  the  thief  had  left  his  motor-car 
to  be  confiscated  by  Iff. 

Three  blocks  north  on  Fourth  Avenue,  and  they 
swung  west  into  Thirty-third  Street:  a  short  course 
quickly  covered,  but  yet  not  swiftly  enough  to  outpace 
Staff's  impatience.  He  had  the  door  open,  his  foot 
on  the  step,  before  the  taxicab  had  begun  to  slow 
down  preparatory  to  stopping  beside  the  car  waiting 
in  the  shadow  of  the  big  hotel. 

Iff  was  in  the  tonneau,  gesticulating  impatiently; 
the  chauffeur  had  already  cranked  up  and  was  sliding 
into  his  seat.  As  the  taxicab  rolled  alongside,  Staff 
jumped,  thrust  double  the  amount  registered  by  the 

295 


296  THE    BANDBOX 

meter  into  the  driver's  hand,  and  sprang  into  the  body 
of  Ismay's  car.  Iff  snapped  the  door  shut;  as  though 
set  in  motion  by  that  sharp  sound,  the  machine  began 
to  move  smoothly  and  smartly,  gathering  momentum 
with  every  revolution  of  its  wheels.  They  were  cross 
ing  Madison  almost  before  Staff  had  settled  into  his 
seat.  A  moment  later  they  were  snoring  up  Fifth 
Avenue. 

Staff  looked  at  his  watch.     "Ten,"   he  told  Iff. 

"We  '11  make  time  once  we  get  clear  of  this  island," 
said  the  little  man  anxiously;  "we  Ve  got  to." 

"Why?" 

"Tobeatlsmay— " 

Staff  checked  him  with  a  hand  on  his  arm  and  a 
warning  glance  at  the  back  of  the  chauffeur's  head. 

"Oh,  that 's  all  right  now,"  Iff  told  him  placidly. 
"  I  thought  we  might 's  well  understand  one  another 
first  as  last;  so,  while  we  were  waiting  for  you,  I  slipped 
him  fifty,  gave  him  to  understand  that  my  affectionate 
cousin  had  about  come  to  the  end  of  his  rope  and  — 
won  his  heart  and  confidence.  It 's  a  way  I  have  with 
people;  they  do  seem  to  fall  for  me,"  he  asserted  with 
insufferable  self-complacence. 

He  continued  to  impart  his  purchased  information 
to  Staff  by  snatches  all  the  way  from  Thirty-fourth 
Street  to  the  Harlem  River. 


NINETY    MINUTES         297 

"He  's  a  decent  sort,"  he  said,  indicating  the 
operator  with  a  nod;  "apparently,  that  is;  name, 
Spelvin.  Employed  by  a  garage  upon  the  West  Side, 
in  the  Seventies.  Says  Ismay  rang  'em  up  about  half- 
past  two  last  night,  chartered  this  car  and  driver, 
to  be  kept  waiting  for  him  whenever  he  called  for 
it.  ...  Coarse  work  that,  for  Cousin  Arbuthnot  — 
very,  very  crude.  .  .  . 

"Still,  he'd  just  got  home  and  hadn't  had  time 
to  make  very  polished  arrangements.  .  .  .  Seems  he 
told  this  chap  he  was  to  see  nothing  but  the  road, 
hear  nothing  but  the  motor,  say  nothing  whatever 
to  nobody.  Gave  him  a  fifty,  too.  That  habit  seems 
to  run  in  the  family.  .  .  . 

"He  called  for  the  car  around  five  o'clock,  with  Nelly. 
Spelvin  says  she  seemed  worn  out,  hardly  conscious 
of  what  was  going  on.  They  lit  out  for  —  where 
we  're  bound:  place  on  the  Connecticut  shore  called 
Pennymint  Point.  On  the  way  Ismay  told  him  to 
stop  at  a  roadhouse,  got  out  and  brought  Nelly  a 
drink.  Spelvin  says  he  would  n't  be  surprised  if  it 
was  doped;  she  slept  all  the  rest  of  the  way  and  hardly 
woke  up  even  when  they  helped  her  aboard  the  boat." 

"Boat!" 

"Motor-boat.  I  infer  that  Cousin  Arbuthnot  has 
established  headquarters  on  a  little  two-by-four  island 


298  THE    BANDBOX 

in  the  Sound  —  Wreck  Island.  Used  to  be  run  as  a 
one-horse  summer  resort  —  hotel  and  all  that.  Went 
under  several  years  ago,  if  mem'ry  serveth  me  aright. 
Anyhow,  they  loaded  Nelly  aboard  this  motor-boat 
and  took  her  across.  .  .  . 

"Spelvin  was  told  to  wait.  He  did.  In  about  an 
hour  —  boat  back;  native  running  it  hands  Spelvin 
a  note,  tells  him  to  run  up  to  Hartford  and  post  it 
and  be  back  at  seven  p.  M.  Spelvin  back  at  seven; 
Ismay  comes  across  by  boat,  is  driven  to  town.  .  .  . 

"  That 's  all,  to  date.  Spelvin  had  begun  to  suspect 
there  was  something  crooked  going  on,  which  made 
him  easy  meat  for  my  insidious  advances.  Says  he 
was  wondering  if  he  had  n't  better  tell  his  troubles 
to  a  cop.  All  of  which  goes  to  show  that  Cousin  Artie  's 
fast  going  to  seed.  Very  crude  operating  —  man  of  his 
reputation,  too.  Makes  me  almost  ashamed  of  the 
relationship." 

"How  are  we  going  to  get  to  Wreck  Island  from 
Pennymint  Point?" 

"Same  boat,"  said  Iff  confidently.  "Spelvin  heard 
Ismay  tell  his  engineer  to  wait  for  him  —  would  be 
back  between  midnight  and  three." 

"He  can't  beat  us  there,  can  he,  by  any  chance?" 

"He  can  if  he  humps  himself.  This  is  a  pretty  good 
car,  and  Spelvin  says  there  is  n't  going  to  be  any  car 


NINETY    MINUTES  299 

on  the  road  tonight  that  '11  pass  us;  but  I  can't  forget 
that  dear  old  New  York,  New  Haven  &  Hartford. 
They  run  some  fast  trains  by  night,  and  while  of  course 
none  of  them  stops  at  Pennymint  Centre  —  station  for 
the  Point  —  still,  a  man  with  plenty  of  money  to  "fling 
around  can  get  a  whole  lot  of  courtesy  out  of  a  rail 
road." 

"Then  the  question  is:  can  he  catch  a  train  which 
passes  through  Pennymint  Centre  before  we  can  rea 
sonably  expect  to  get  there?" 

"That's  the  intelligent  query.  I  don't  know.  Do 
you?" 

"No—" 

"Spelvin  doesn't,  and  we  haven't  got  any  time  to 
waste  trying  to  find  out.  Probabilities  are,  there  is. 
The  only  thing  to  do  is  to  run  for  it  and  trust  to  luck. 
Spelvin  says  it  took  him  an  hour  and  thirty-five  minutes 
to  run  in,  this  evening;  and  he  's  going  to  better  that 
if  nothing  happens.  Did  you  remember  to  bring  a 
gun?" 

"Two."  Staff  produced  the  pistol  he  had  taken  from 
Ismay,  with  the  extra  clips,  and  gave  them  to  the  little 
man  with  an  account  of  how  he  had  become  possessed 
of  them  —  a  narrative  which  Iff  seemed  to  enjoy 
immensely. 

"Oh,  we  can't  lose,"  he  chuckled;  "not  when  Cousin 


300  THE    BANDBOX 

Artie  plays  his  hand  as  poorly  as  he  has  this  deal. 
I  ve  got  a  perfectly  sound  hunch  that  we  '11  win." 

i  Staff  hardly  shared  his  confidence;  still,  as  far  as 
he  could  judge,  the  odds  were  even.  Ismay  might 
beat  them  to  Pennymint  Centre  by  train,  and  might 
not.  If  he  did,  however,  it  could  not  be  by  more  than 
a  slight  margin;  to  balance  which  fact,  Staff  had  to 
remind  himself  that  two  minutes'  margin  was  all  that 
would  be  required  to  get  the  boat  away  from  land, 
beyond  their  reach. 

"Look  here,"  he  put  it  to  Iff:  "suppose  he  does  beat 
us  to  that  boat?" 

"Then  we  '11  have  to  find  another." 

"There'll  be  another  handy,  all  ready  for  us,  I 
presume?" 

"Spare  me  your  sarcasm,"  pleaded  Iff;  "it  is,  if  you 
don't  mind  my  mentioning  the  fact,  not  your  forte. 
Silence,  on  the  other  hand,  suits  your  style  cunningly. 
So  shut  up  and  lemme  think." 

He  relapsed  into  profound  meditations,  while  the 
car  hummed  onwards  through  the  moon-drenched 
spaces  of  the  night. 

Presently  he  roused  and,  without  warning,  clam 
bered  over  the  back  of  the  seat  into  the  place  beside 
the  chauffeur.  For  a  time  the  two  conferred,  heads 
together,  their  words  indistinguishable  in  the  sweep 


NINETY    MINUTES          301 

of  air.  Then,  in  the  same  spry  fashion,  the  little  man 
returned. 

"Spelvin's  a  treasure,"  he  announced,  settling  into 
his  place. 

"Why?" 

"Knows  the  country  —  knows  a  man  in  Barmouth 
who  runs  a  shipyard,  owns  and  hires  out  motor- 
boats,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Where's  Barmouth?" 

"Four  miles  this  side  of  Pennymint  Point.  Now 
we  've  got  to  decide  whether  to  hold  on  and  run  our 
chances  of  picking  up  Ismay's  boat,  or  turn  off  to 
Barmouth  and  run  our  chances  of  finding  chauffeur's, 
friend  with  boat  disengaged.  What  do  you  think?" 

"Barmouth,"  Staff  decided  after  some  deliberation 
but  not  without  misgivings. 

"That's  what  I  told  Spelvin,"  observed  Iff.  "It's 
a  gamble  either  way." 

The  city  was  now  well  behind  them,  the  car  pound 
ing  steadily  on  through  Westchester.  For  a  long  time 
neither  spoke.  The  time  for  talk,  indeed,  was  past  — 
and  in  the  future;  for  the  present  they  must  tune  them 
selves  up  to  action  —  such  action  as  the  furious  onrush 
of  the  powerful  car  in  some  measure  typified,  easing 
the  impatience  in  their  hearts. 

For  a  time  the  road  held  them  near  railroad  tracks. 


302  THE    BANDBOX 

A  train  hurtled  past  them,  running  eastwards:  a 
roaring  streak  of  orange  light  crashing  through  the 
world  of  cool  night  blues  and  purple-blacks. 

The  chauffeur  swore  audibly  and  let  out  another 
notch  of  speed. 

Staff  sat  spellbound  by  the  amazing  romance  of  it 
all.  ...  A  bare  eight  days  since  that  afternoon  when 
a  whim,  born  of  a  love  now  lifeless,  had  stirred  him 
out  of  his  solitary,  work-a-day  life  in  London,  had  lifted 
him  out  of  the  ordered  security  of  the  centre  of  the 
world's  civilisation  and  sent  him  whirling  dizzily 
across  three  thousand  miles  and  more  to  become  a 
partner  in  this  wild,  weird  ride  to  the  rescue  of  a  damsel 
in  distress  and  durance  vile!  Incredible!  .  .  . 

Eight  days:  and  the  sun  of  Alison,  that  once  he 
had  thought  to  be  the  light  of  all  the  world,  had  set; 
while  in  the  evening  sky  the  star  of  Eleanor  was  rising 
and  blazing  ever  more  brightly.  .  .  . 

Now  when  a  man  begins  to  think  about  himself  and 
his  heart  in  such  poetic  imagery,  the  need  for  human 
intercourse  grows  imperative  on  his  understanding; 
he  must  talk  or  —  suffer  severely. 

Staff  turned  upon  his  defenseless  companion. 

"Iff,"  said  he,  "when  a  man 's  the  sort  of  a  man  who 
can  fall  out  of  love  and  in  again  —  with  another  woman, 
of  course  —  inside  a  week  —  what  do  you  call  him?  " 


NINETY    MINUTES          303 

"Human,"  announced  Iff  after  mature  considera 
tion  of  the  problem. 

This  was  unsatisfactory;  Staff  yearned  to  be  called 
fickle. 

"Human?    How 's  that?"  he  insisted. 

"I  mean  that  the  human  man  hasn't  got  much  to 
say  about  falling  in  or  out  of  love.  The  women  take 
care  of  all  that  for  him.  Look  at  your  Miss  Landis  — 
yours  as  was.  .  .  .  You  don't  mind  my  buttin'  in?" 

"Go  on/'  said  Staff  grimly. 

"Anybody  with  half  an  eye,  always  excepting  you, 
could  see  she'd  made  up  her  mind  to  hook  that  Arkroyd 
pinhead  on  account  of  his  money.  She  was  just  waiting 
for  a  fair  chance  to  give  you  the  office  —  preferably, 
of  course,  after  she  'd  nailed  that  play  of  yours." 

"Well,"  said  Staff,  "she's  lost  that,  too." 

"Serves  you  both  right." 

There  was  a  pause  wherein  Staff  sought  to  fathom 
the  meaning  of  this  last  utterance  of  Mr.  Iff's. 

"  I  take  it,"  resumed  the  latter  with  a  sidelong  look 
—  "pardon  a  father's  feelings  of  delicacy  —  I  take  it, 
you're  meaning  Nelly?" 

"How  did  you  guess  that?"  demanded  Staff,  startled. 

"Right,  eh?" 

"Yes  —  no  —  I  don't  know  — " 

"Well,  if  you  don't  know  the  answer  any  better  'n 


304  THE    BANDBOX 

that,  take  a  word  of  advice  from  an  old  bird:  you  get 
her  to  tell  you.  She 's  known  it  ever  since  she  laid 
eyes  on  you." 

"You  mean  she  —  I  — "  Staff  stammered  eagerly. 

"I  mean  nobody  knows  anything  about  a  woman's 
Heart  but  herself;  but  she  knows  it  backwards  and  all 
the  time." 

"Then  you  don't  think  I  've  got  any  show? " 

"Oh,  Lord!"  complained  Iff.  "Honest,  you  gimme 
a  pain.  Go  on  and  do  your  own  thinking." 

Staff  subsided,  imagining  a  vain  thing:  that  the 
mantle  of  dignity  in  which  he  wrapped  himself  success 
fully  cloaked  his  sense  of  injury.  Iff  smiled  a  mean 
ingless  smile  up  at  the  inscrutable  skies.  And  the 
moonlit  miles  slipped  beneath  the  wheels  like  a  torrent 
of  moulten  silver. 

At  length  —  it  seemed  as  if  many  hours  must  have 
swung  crashing  into  eternity  since  they  had  left  New 
York  —  Staff  was  conscious  of  a  perceptible  diminution 
of  speed;  he  was  able  to  get  his  breath  with  less  effort, 
had  no  longer  to  snatch  it  by  main  strength  from  the 
greedy  clutches  of  the  whirlwind.  The  reeling  chiar 
oscuro  of  the  countryside  seemed  suddenly  to  become 
calm,  settling  into  an  intelligible,  more  or  less  orderly 
arrangement  of  shining  hills  and  shadowed  hollows, 
spreading  pastures  and  sombre  woodlands.  The 


NINETY    MINUTES  305 

chauffeur  flung  a  few  inarticulate  words  over  his  shoul 
der —  readily  interpreted  as  announcing  the  nearness 
of  their  destination;  and  of  a  sudden  the  car  swung 
from  the  main  highway  into  a  narrow  by-road  that  ran 
off  to  the  right.  A  little  later  they  darted  through  a 
cut  beneath  railroad  tracks,  and  a  village  sprang  out 
of  the  night  and  rattled  past  them,  serenely  slumbrous. 
From  this  centre  a  thin  trickle  of  dwellings  straggled 
along  their  way.  Across  fields  to  the  left,  Staff  caught 
glimpses  of  a  spreading  sheet  of  water,  still  and  silvery- 
grey.  .  .  . 

On  a  long  slant,  the  road  drew  nearer  and  more  near 
to  the  shores  of  this  arm  of  the  Sound.  Presently  a 
group  of  small  buildings  near  the  head  of  a  long 
landing-stage  swam  into  view.  Before  them  the  car 
drew  up  with  a  sigh.  The  chauffeur  jumped  down  and 
ran  across  the  road  to  a  house  in  whose  lower  story  a 
lighted  window  was  visible.  While  he  hammered  at 
the  door,  Staff  and  Iff  alighted.  A  man  in  his  shirt 
sleeves  came  to  the  door  of  the  cottage  and  stood  there, 
pipe  in  mouth,  hands  in  pockets,  languidly  interjecting 
dispassionate  responses  into  the  chauffeur's  animated 
exposition  of  their  case.  As  Staff  and  Iff  came  up, 
Spelvin  turned  to  them,  excitedly  waving  his  gauntlets. 

"He's  got  a  boat,  all  right,  and  a  good  one  he  says, 
but  he  won't  move  a  foot  for  less  'n  twenty  dollars." 


306  THE    BANDBOX 

"  Give  you  twenty-five  if  you  get  away  from  the  dock 
within  five  minutes,"  Iff  told  the  boatbuilder  directly. 

The  man  started  as  if  stung.  "  Jemima ! "  he  breathed, 
incredulous.  Then  caution  prompted  him  to  extend  a 
calloused  and  work-warped  hand.  "Cross  my  palm," 
he  said. 

"You  give  it  to  him,  Staff,"  said  Iff  magnificently. 
"I'm  short  of  cash." 

Obediently,  Staff  disbursed  the  required  sum.  The 
native  thumbed  it,  pocketed  it,  lifted  his  coat  from  a 
nail  behind  the  door  and  started  across  the  road  in  a 
single  movement. 

"You  come  'long,  Spelvin,"  he  said  in  passing, 
"  'nd  help  with  the  boat.  If  you  gents  '11  get  out  on 
the  dock  I  '11  have  her  alongside  in  three  minutes, 
'r  my  name  ain't  Bascom." 

Pursued  by  the  chauffeur,  he  disappeared  into  the 
huddle  of  boat-houses  and  beached  and  careened  boats. 
A  moment  later,  Iff  and  Staff,  picking  their  way  through 
the  tangle,  heard  the  scrape  of  a  flat-bottomed  boat 
on  the  beach  and,  subsequently,  splashing  oars. 

By  the  time  they  had  reached  the  end  of  the  dock, 
the  boatbuilder  and  his  companion  were  scrambling 
aboard  a  twenty-five-foot  boat  at  anchor  in  the  midst 
of  a  small  fleet  of  sail  and  gasoline  craft.  The  rumble 
of  a  motor  followed  almost  instantly,  was  silenced  mo- 


NINETY    MINUTES  307 

mentarily  while  the  skiff  was  being  made  fast  to  the 
mooring,  broke  out  again  as  the  larger  boat  selected 
a  serpentine  path  through  the  circumjacent  vessels 
and  slipped  up  to  the  dock. 

Before  it  had  lost  way,  Iff  and  Staff  were  aboard. 
Instantly,  Bascom  snapped  the  switch  shut  and  the 
motor  started  again  on  the  spark. 

"Straight  out,"  he  instructed  Spelvin  at  the  wheel, 
"till  you  round  that  white  moorin'-dolphin.  Then 
I '11  take  her."  .  .  . 

Not  long  afterward  he  gave  up  pottering  round  the 
engine  and  went  forward,  relieving  Spelvin.  "You  go 
back  and  keep  your  eye  on  that  engyne,"  he  ordered; 
"she's  workin'  like  a  sewin'-machine,  but  she  wants 
watchin'.  I  '11  tell  you  when  to  give  her  the  spark. 
Meanwhile  you  might 's  well  dig  them  lights  out  of  the 
port  locker  and  set  'em  out." 

"No,"  Iff  put  in.    "We  want  no  lights." 

"Gov'mint  regulations,"  said  Bascom  stubbornly. 
"Must  carry  lights." 

"Five  dollars?"  Iff  argued  persuasively. 

"Agin  the  law,"  growled  Bascom.  "But  —  I  dunno 
—  they  ain't  anybody  likely  to  be  out  this  time  o'  night. 
Cross  my  palm." 

And  Staff  again  disbursed. 

The  white  mooring-buoy  swam  past  and  the  little 


308  THE    BANDBOX 

vessel  heeled  as  Bascom  swung  her  sharply  to  the 
southwards. 

"Now,"  he  told  Spelvin,  "advance  that  spark  all 
you  Ve  a  mind  to." 

There  was  a  click  from  the  engine-pit  and  the  steady 
rumble  of  the  exhaust  ran  suddenly  into  a  prolonged 
whining  drone.  The  boat  jumped  as  if  jerked  forward 
by  some  gigantic,  invisible  hand.  Beneath  the  bows 
the  water  parted  with  a  crisp  sound  like  tearing 
paper.  Long  ripples  widened  away  from  the  sides, 
like  ribs  of  a  huge  fan.  A  glassy  hillock  of  water  sprang 
up  mysteriously  astern,  pursuing  them  like  an  avenging 
Nemesis,  yet  never  quite  catching  up. 

The  sense  of  irresistible  speed  was  tremendous,  as 
stimulating  as  electricity;  this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
the  boat  was  at  best  making  about  half  the  speed  at 
which  the  motor-car  had  plunged  along  the  country 
roads:  an  effect  in  part  due  to  the  spacious  illusion  of 
moonlit  distances  upon  the  water. 

Staff  held  his  cap  with  one  hand,  drinking  in  the  keen 
salt  air  with  a  feeling  of  strange  exultation.  Iff  crept 
forward  and  tarried  for  a  time  talking  to  the  boat- 
builder. 

The  boat  shaved  a  nun-buoy  outside  Barmouth 
Point  so  closely  that  Staff  could  almost  have  touched 
it  by  stretching  out  his  arm.  Then  she  straightened 


NINETY    MINUTES  309 

out  like  a  greyhound  on  a  long  course  across  the 
placid  silver  reaches  to  a  goal  as  yet  invisible. 

Iff  returned  to  the  younger  man's  side. 

"Twenty  miles  an  hour,  Bascom  claims/'  he  shouted. 
"At  that  rate  we  ought  to  be  there  in  about  fifteen 
minutes  now." 

Staff  nodded,  wondering  what  they  would  find  on 
Wreck  Island,  bitterly  repenting  the  oversight  which 
had  resulted  in  Ismay's  escape  from  his  grasp.  If 
only  he  had  not  been  so  sure  of  his  conquest  of  the  little 
criminal  .  .  .  !  Now  his  mind  crawled  with  apprehen 
sions  bred  of  his  knowledge  of  the  man's  amazing  fund 
of  resource.  He  who  outwitted  Ismay  would  have 
earned  the  right  to  plume  himself  upon  his  cunning.  .  .  . 

When  he  looked  up  from  his  abstraction,  the  loom  of 
the  mainland  was  seemingly  very  distant.  The  motor- 
boat  was  nearing  the  centre  of  a  deep  indentation  in 
the  littoral.  And  suddenly  it  was  as  though  they  did 
not  move  at  all,  as  if  all  this  noise  and  labour  went 
for  nothing,  as  if  the  boat  were  chained  to  the  centre 
of  a  spreading  disk  of  silver,  world-wide,  illimitable, 
and  made  no  progress  for  all  its  thrashing  and  its 
fury. 

Only  the  unending  sweep  of  wind  across  his  face 
denied  that  effect.  .  .  . 

Iff  touched  his  arm. 


310  THE    BANDBOX 

"There.  .  .  ."he  said,  pointing. 

Over  the  bows  a  dark  mass  seemed  to  have  separated 
itself  from  the  shadowed  mainland,  with  which  it  had 
till  then  been  merged.  A  strip  of  silver  lay  between  the 
two,  and  while  they  watched  it  widened,  swiftly  win 
ning  breadth  and  bulk  as  the  motor-boat  swung  to 
the  north  of  the  long,  sandy  spit  at  the  western  end 
of  Wreck  Island. 

"See  anything  of  another  boat?"  Iff  asked.  "You 
look  —  your  eyes  are  younger  than  mine." 

Staff  stood  up,  steadying  himself  with  feet  wide 
apart,  and  stared  beneath  his  hand. 

"No,"  he  said;  " I  see  no  boat." 

"We  Ve  beaten  him,  then!"  Iff  declared  joyfully. 

But  they  hadn't,  nor  were  they  long  in  finding  it 
out.  For  presently  the  little  island  lay  black,  a  ragged 
shadow  against  the  blue-grey  sky,  upon  the  starboard 
beam;  and  Bascom  passed  the  word  aft  to  shut  off  the 
motor.  As  its  voice  ceased,  the  boat  shot  in  toward 
the  land,  and  the  long  thin  moonlit  line  of  the  landing- 
stage  detached  itself  from  the  general  obscurity  and 
ran  out  to  meet  them.  And  so  closely  had  Bascom 
calculated  that  the  "shoot"  of  the  boat  brought  them 
to  a  standstill  at  the  end  of  the  structure  without  a 
jar.  Bascom  jumped  out  with  the  headwarp,  Staff  and 
Iff  at  his  heels. 


NINETY    MINUTES          311 

From  the  other  side  of  the  dock  a  shadow  uplifted 
itself,  swiftly  and  silently  as  a  wraith,  and  stood  sway 
ing  as  it  saluted  them  with  profound  courtesy. 

" Gennelmen,"  it  said  thickly,  "I  bidsh  you  welcome 
t'  Wrecksh  Island." 

With  this  it  slumped  incontinently  back  into  a  motor- 
boat  which  lay  moored  in  the  shadow  of  the  dock;  and 
a  wild,  ecstatic  snore  rang  out  upon  the  calm  night  air. 

"Thet's  Eph  Clover,"  said  Bascom;  "him  'nd  his 
wife 's  caretakers  here.  He 's  drunker  'n  a  b'iled  owl," 
added  the  boatbuilder  lest  they  misconstrue. 

"Cousin  Artie  seems  unfortunate  in  his  choice  of 
minions,  what?"  commented  Iff.  "Come  along,  Staff. 
.  .  .  Take  care  of  that  souse,  will  you,  Spelvin?  See 
that  he  does  n't  try  to  mix  in." 

They  began  to  run  along  the  narrow,  yielding  and 
swaying  bridge  of  planks. 

"  He  has  n't  beaten  us  out  yet,"  Iff  threw  over  his 
shoulder.  "You  keep  back  now  —  like  a  good  child  — 
please.  I  've  got  a  hunch  this  is  my  hour." 

The  hotel  loomed  before  them,  gables  grey  with 
moonshine,  its  long  walls  dark  save  where,  toward  the 
middle  of  the  main  structure,  chinks  of  light  filtered 
through  a  shuttered  window,  and  where  at  one  end  an 
open  door  let  out  a  shaft  of  lamplight  upon  the 
shadows.  . 


XVII 

HOLOCAUST 

FOR  a  period  of  perhaps  twenty  seconds  the  man  and 
the  girl  remained  moveless,  eyeing  one  another; 
she  on  the  floor,  pale,  stunned  and  pitiful,  for  the 
instant  bereft  of  every  sense  save  that  of  terror;  he 
in  the  doorway,  alert,  fully  the  master  of  his  concen 
trated  faculties,  swayed  by  two  emotions  only  —  a 
malignant  temper  bred  of  the  night's  succession  of 
reverses  capped  by  the  drunkenness  of  his  caretaker, 
and  an  equally  malignant  sense  of  triumph  that  he 
had  returned  in  time  to  crush  the  girl's  attempt  to 
escape. 

He  threw  the  door  wide  open  and  took  a  step  into 
the  room,  putting  away  his  pistol. 

"So  — "he  began  in  a  cutting  voice. 

But  his  movement  had  acted  as  the  shock  needed  to 
rouse  the  girl  out  of  her  stupor  of  despair.  With  a 
cry  she  gathered  herself  together  and  jumped  to  her 
feet.  He  put  forth  a  hand  as  if  to  catch  her,  and  she 

312 


HOLOCAUST  313 

leaped  back.  Her  skirts  swept  the  lamp  on  the  floor 
and  overturned  it  with  a  splintering  crash.  Instinc 
tively  she  sprang  away  —  in  the  nick  of  time. 

She  caught  a  look  of  surprise  and  fright  in  the 
eyes  of  the  man  as  they  glared  past  her  in  the 
ghastly  glow  of  the  flickering  wick,  and  took  advan 
tage  of  this  momentary  distraction  to  leap  past  him. 
As  she  did  so  there  was  a  slight  explosion.  A  sheet  of 
flaming  kerosene  spread  over  the  floor  and  licked  the 
chairboarding. 

Ismay  jumped  back,  mouthing  curses;  the  girl  had 
already  slipped  out  of  the  room.  Turning,  he  saw 
her  flying  through  the  hall  toward  the  main  door. 
In  a  fit  of  futile,  childish  spite,  unreasonable  and 
unreasoning,  he  whipped  out  his  pistol  and  sent  a 
bullet  after  her. 

She  heard  it  whine  near  her  head  and  crash  through 
the  glass  panes  of  the  door.  And  she  heard  herself 
cry  out  in  a  strange  voice.  The  next  instant  she  had 
flung  open  the  door  and  thrown  herself  out,  across  the 
veranda  and  down  the  steps.  Then  turning  blindly  to- 
the  left,  instinct  guiding  her  to  seek  temporary  safety 
by  hiding  in  the  wilderness  of  the  dunes,  she  blund 
ered  into  somebody's  arms. 

She  was  caught  and  held  fast  despite  her  struggles  to 
free  herself:  to  which,  believing  herself  to  be  in  the 


314  THE    BANDBOX 

hands  of  Mrs.  Clover  or  her  husband,  she  gave  all  her 
strength. 

At  the  same  time  the  first-floor  windows  of  the  hotel 
were  illumined  by  an  infernal  glare.  All  round  her 
there  was  lurid  light,  setting  everything  in  sharp  relief. 
The  face  of  the  man  who  held  her  was  suddenly  re 
vealed;  and  it  was  her  father's.  .  .  .  She  had  left  him 
inside  the  building  and  now  .  .  .  She  was  assailed  with 
a  terrifying  fear  that  she  had  gone  mad.  In  a  frenzy 
she  wrenched  herself  free;  but  only  to  be  caught  in 
other  arms. 

A  voice  she  knew  said  soothingly:  "There,  Miss 
Searle  —  you  're  all  right  now.  ..." 

Staff's  voice  and,  when  she  twisted  to  look,  Staff's 
face,  friendly  and  reassuring! 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  he  was  saying;  "we'll  take  care 
of  you  now  —  your  father  and  I." 

"My  father!"  she  gasped.  "My  father  is  in 
there!" 

"No,"  said  Iff  at  her  side.  "Believe  me,  he  isn't. 
That,  dear,  is  your  fondly  affectionate  Uncle  Arbuth- 
not  —  and  between  the  several  of  us  I  don't  mind  tell 
ing  you  that  he 's  stood  in  my  shoes  for  the  last  time." 

"But  I  don't,"  she  stammered  —  "I  don't  under 
stand  — " 

"You  will  in  a  minute,"  Staff  told  her  gently.    At 


HOLOCAUST  315 

the  same  time  he  lifted  his  voice.  "Look  out,  Iff  — 
lookout!" 

He  strove  to  put  himself  between  the  girl  and 
danger,  making  a  shield  of  his  body.  But  with  a 
supple  movement  she  eluded  him. 

She  saw  in  the  doorway  of  the  burning  house  the 
man  she  had  thought  to  be  her  father.  The  other 
man,  he  whose  daughter  she  really  was,  had  started  to 
run  toward  the  veranda  steps.  The  man  in  the  door 
way  flung  up  his  hand  and,  clear  and  vicious  above 
the  crackling  of  the  flames,  she  heard  the  short  song 
of  a  Colt  automatic  —  six  shots,  so  close  upon  one 
another  that  they  were  as  one  prolonged. 

There  was  a  spatter  of  bullets  in  the  sandy  ground 
about  them;  and  then,  with  scarcely  an  appreciable 
interval,  a  second  flutter  of  an  automatic.  This  time 
the  reports  came  from  the  pistol  in  Iff 's  hand.  He  was 
standing  in  full  glare  at  the  bottom  of  the  veranda 
steps,  aiming  with  great  composure  and  precision. 

The  figure  in  the  doorway  reeled  as  if  struck  by  an 
axe,  swung  half-way  round  and  tottered  back  into  the 
house.  The  little  man  below  the  veranda  steps  delayed 
only  long  enough  to  pluck  out  the  empty  clip  from  the 
butt  of  his  pistol  and  slip  another,  loaded,  into  its 
place.  Then  with  cat-like  agility  he  sprang  up  the 
steps  and  dived  into  the  furnace-like  interior  of  the 


316  THE    BANDBOX 

hotel.  A  third  stuttering  series  of  reports  saluted  this 
action,  and  then  there  was  a  short  pause  ended  by  a 
single  shot. 

"Come,"  said  Staff.  He  took  her  arm  gently. 
"Come  away.  ..." 

Shuddering,  she  suffered  him  to  lead  her  a  little 
distance  into  the  dunes.  Here  he  released  her. 

"If  you  won't  mind  being  left  alone  a  few  minutes/' 
he  said, "  I  '11  go  back  and  see  what 's  happened.  You  '11 
be  perfectly  safe  here,  I  fancy." 

"Please,"  she  said  breathlessly  —  "do  go.  Yes, 
please." 

She  urged  him  with  frantic  gestures.  .  .  . 

He  hurried  back  to  the  front  of  the  hotel.  By  now 
it  was  burning  like  a  bonfire;  already,  short  as  had  been 
the  time  since  the  overturning  of  the  lamp,  the  entire 
ground  floor  with  the  exception  of  one  wing  was  a 
roaring  welter  of  flames,  while  the  fire  had  leaped  up 
the  main  staircase  and  set  its  signals  in  the  windows 
of  the  upper  story. 

Iff  was  standing  at  some  distance  from  the  main 
entrance,  having  pushed  his  way  through  the  tangle 
of  undergrowth  to  escape  the  scorching  heat  that  ema 
nated  from  the  building.  He  caught  sight  of  Staff 
approaching  and  waved  a  hand  to  him. 

"Greetings!"  he  cried  cheerfully,  raising  his  voice 


HOLOCAUST  317 

to  make  it  heard  above  the  voice  of  the  conflagration. 
"Where's  Nelly?" 

Staff  explained.  "But  what  about  Ismay?"  he 
demanded. 

Iff  grinned  and  hung  his  head  as  if  embarrassed, 
rubbing  a  handkerchief  over  the  smoke-stained  fingers 
of  his  right  hand. 

"I  got  him,"  he  said  simply. 

"You  left  him  in  there?" 

The  little  man  nodded  without  reply  and  turned 
alertly  to  engage  Mrs.  Clover,  who  was  bearing  down 
upon  them  in  the  first  stages  of  hysterics.  But  at 
sight  of  Iff  she  pulled  up  and  calmed  herself  a  trifle. 

"Oh,  sir,"  she  cried,  "I  'm  so  glad  you  're  safe,  sir! 
I  was  asleep  in  the  kitchen  when  the  fire  broke  out  — 
and  then  I  thought  I  heard  pistol  shots  —  and  I  did  n't 
know  but  somethin'  had  happened  to  you  — " 

"No,"  said  Iff  coolly;  "you  can  see  I'm  all  right." 

"  And  Eph,  sir?  Where 's  my  husband?  "  she  shrieked. 

"Oh,"  said  Iff,  at  length  identifying  the  woman. 
"You'll  find  him  down  at  the  dock  —  dead  drunk  in 
the  motor-boat,"  he  told  her.  "If  I  were  you  I'd  go 
to  him  right  away." 

"But  whatever  will  we  do  for  a  place  to  sleep  to 
night?" 

"Help  yourself,"  Iff  replied  with  a  generous  wave  of 


318     v         THE    BANDBOX 

his  hand.  "You  've  all  Pennymint  to  ask  shelter  of, 
if  you  can  manage  to  make  your  husband  run  the  boat 
across." 

"But  you  —  what  '11  you  do?" 

"I've  another  boat  handy,"  Iff  explained.  "We'll 
go  in  that." 

"And  will  you  rebuild,  sir?" 

"No,"  he  said  gravely,  "I  don't  think  so.  I  fancy 
this  is  the  last  time  I  '11  ever  set  foot  on  Wreck  Island. 
Now  clear  out,"  he  added  with  a  sharp  change  of 
manner,  "and  see  if  you  can't  sober  that  drunken  fool 
up." 

Abashed,  the  woman  cringed  and  turned  away. 
Presently  she  broke  into  a  clumsy  run  and  vanished 
in  the  direction  of  the  landing-stage. 

"You  've  accepted  the  identity  of  Ismay,"  com 
mented  Staff  disapprovingly,  as  they  moved  off  to 
gether  to  rejoin  Eleanor. 

"For  the  last  time,"  said  the  little  man.  "Until 
I  get  aboard  Bascom's  boat  again,  only.  It's  the 
easiest  way." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

Iff  nodded  at  the  blazing  building.  "That  wipes 
out  all  scores,"  he  replied.  "  What  they  find  of  Cousin 
Artie  when  that  cools  off  won't  be  enough  to  hold  an 
inquest  over;  he  will  be  simply  thought  to  have  disap- 


HOLOCAUST  319 

peared,  since  I  won't  return  to  this  place.  And  that 's 
the  easiest  way :  we  don't  got  any  use  for  inquests  at 
the  wind-up  of  this  giddy  dune-novel!" 

The  light  of  the  great  fire  illumined  not  only  all 
the  island  but  the  waters  for  miles  around.  As 
Bascom's  boat  drew  away,  its  owner  called  Staff's 
attention  to  a  covey  of  sails,  glowing  pink  against  the 
dark  background  of  the  mainland  as  they  stood  across 
the  arm  of  the  Sound  for  the  island. 

"Neighbours,"  said  Mr.  Bascom;  "comin'  for  to 
see  if  they  can  lend  a  hand  or  snatch  a  souvenir  or  so, 
mebbe." 

Staff  nodded,  with  little  interest.  Out  of  the  corners 
of  his  eyes  he  could  see  Iff  and  his  daughter,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  boat.  Iff  was  talking  to  her 
in  a  gentle,  subdued  voice  strangely  unlike  his  cus 
tomary  acrid  method  of  expression.  He  had  an  arm 
round  his  daughter's  shoulders;  her  head  rested  on 
his.  .  .  . 

Staff  looked  away,  back  at  the  shining  island.  He 
could  not  grudge  the  little  man  his  hour.  His  own  would 
come,  in  time.  .  .  . 

THE  END 


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Conquest  of  Canaan,  The.     By  Booth  Tarkington. 
Conspirators,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 
Cynthia  of  the  Minute.     By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 
Dan   Merrithew.     By  Lawrence  Perry. 
Day  of  the  Dog,  The.     By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 
Depot  Master,  The.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 
Derelicts.     By  William  J.  Locke. 
Diamond    Master,   The.     By  Jacques   Futrelle. 
Diamonds  Cut  Paste.     By  Agnes  and  Egerton  Castle. 
Divine  Fire,  The.     By  May  Sinclair. 
Dixie   Hart.     By  Will  N.  Harben. 
Dr.  David.     By  Marjorie  Benton  Cooke. 
Early  Bird,  The.     By  George  Randolph  Chester. 
Eleventh  hour,  The.     By  David  Potter. 
Elizabeth  in  Rugen.  (By  the  author  of  "Elizabeth  and  Her  German 

Garden.") 

Elusive  Isabel.     By  Jacques  Futrelle. 
Elusive   Pimpernel,  The.     By  Baroness  Orczy. 
Enchanted  Hat,  The.     By  Harold  McGrath. 
Excuse   Me.     By  Rupert  Hughes. 
54-40  or  Fight.     By  Emerson  Hough. 
Fighting   Chance,   The.     By  Robert  W.   Chambers. 
Flamsted   Quarries.     By  Mary  E.   Waller. 
Flying   Mercury,   The.     By  Eleanor  M.  Ingram. 
For  a  Maiden   Brave.     By  Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss. 
Four   Million,  The.     By  O.  Henry. 
Four  Pool's  Mystery,  The.     By  Jean  Webster. 
Fruitful   Vine,   The.     By  Robert  Hichens. 
Canton  &  Co.     By  Arthur  J.  Eddy. 
Gentleman   of   France,  A.     By  Stanley  Weyman. 
Gentleman,  The.     By  Alfred  Ollivant. 

Get- Rick-Quick- Wallingford.     By  George  Randolph  Chester. 
Gilbert   Neal.     By  Will  N.  Harben. 
Girl  and  the  Bill,  The.     By  Bannister  Merwin. 
Girl  from  His  Town,  The.    By  Marie  Van  Vorst. 
Girl  Who  Won,   The.     By  Beth  Ellis. 
Glory  of  Clementina,  The.     By  William  J.  Locke. 
Glory  of  the  Conquered,  The.     By  Susan  Glaspell. 
God's  Good  Man.     By  Marie  Corelli. 
Going  Some.     By  Rex  Beach. 
Golden  Web,  The.     By  Anthony  Partridge. 
Green  Patch,  The.     By  Bettina  von  Hutten. 
Happy  Island  (sequel  to  "Uncle  William).     By  Jennette  Lee. 
Hearts  and  the   Highway.    By  Cyrus  Townsend  Brady. 
Held  for  Orders.     By  Frank  H.   Spearman. 
Hidden    Water.     By   Dane   Coolidge. 
Highway  of  Fate,  The.    By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 
Homesteaders,  The.     By  Kate  and  Virgil  D.  Boyles. 
Honor  of  the  Big  Snows,  The.     By  James  Oliver  Curwood. 
Hopalong   Cassldy.       By  Clarence  E.   Mulford. 
Household  of  Peter,  The.    By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 
House  of  Mystery,  The.     By  Will  Irwin. 
House  of  the  Lost  Court,  The.    By  C.  N.  Williamson. 
House  of  the  Whispering  Pines,  The.     By  Anna  Katherine  Green. 


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House   on   Cherry   Street,   The.     By  Amelia  E.   Barr. 

How   Leslie  Loved.     By  Anne  Warner. 

Husbands  of    Edith.  The.     By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Idois.     By  William  J.  Locke. 

Illustrious    Prince,   The.       By  B.    Phillips   Oppenheim. 

Imprudence  of  Prue,  The.     By  Sophie  Fisher. 

Inez.     (Illustrated  Edition.)     By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 

Infelice.    By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Initials  Only.     By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

In   Defiance  of  the  King.     By  Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss. 

Indifference   of  Juliet,    The.     By  Grace  S.   Richmond. 

In  the  Service  of  the  Princess.     By  Henry  C.  Rowland. 

Iron   Woman,  The.     By  Margaret  Deland. 

Ishmael.     (Illustrated.)     By  Mrs.  Southworth. 

Island  of  Regeneration,  The.     By     Cyrus  Townsend  Brady. 

Jack  Spuriock,   Prodigal.     By  Horace  Lorimer. 

Jane  Cable.     By  George  Barr  McCutcheon  . 

Jeanne  of  the  Marshes.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Jude  the  Obsoure.     By  Thomas  Hardy. 

Keith  of  the   Border.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Key  to  the  Unknown.  The.     By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 

Kingdom  of  Earth,  The.     By  Anthony  Partridge. 

King   Spruce.     By  Holman  Day. 

Ladder  of  Swords,  A.     By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Lady  Betty  Across  the  Water.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Lady  Merton,  Colonist.     By  Mrs.  Humphrey  Ward. 

Lady  of  Big  Shanty,  The.     By  Berkeley  F.  Smith. 

Langford  of  the  Three  Bars.     By  Kate  and  Virgil  D.  Boyles. 

Land  of   Long  Ago,  The.     By  Eliza  Calvert  Hall. 

Lane  That  Had   No  Turning,  The.     By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Last  Trail,   The.     By  Zane  Grey. 

Last  Voyage  of  the  Donna  Isabel,  The.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Leavenworth   Case,  The.     By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Lin   McLean.     By  Owen  Wister. 

Little   Brown  Jug  at   Kildare,  The.     By  Meredith  Nicholson. 

Loaded    Dice.      By  Ellery  H.   Clarke. 

Lord  Loveland  Discovers  America.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Lorimer  of  the   Northwest.     By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Lorraine.     By  Robert  W.   Chambers. 

Lost  Ambassador,  The.     By  E.   Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Love  Under  Fire.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Loves  of  Miss  Anne,  The.     By  S.  R.   Crockett. 

Macaria.     (Illustrated  Edition.)     By  Augusta  J    Evans 

Mademoiselle   Celeste.     By  Adele   Ferguson   Knight. 

Maid   at  Arms,   The.     By  Robert  W.   Chambers. 

Maid  of  Old   New  York,  A.     By  Amelia  E.  Barr. 

Maid   of  the  Whispering   Hills,   The.     By  Vingie  Roe 

Maids  of  Paradise,  The.      By  Robert  W.   Chambers. 

Making  of   Bobby   Burnit,  The.     By  George  Randolph  Chester. 

Mam'   Linda.     By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Man  Outside,  The.      By  Wyndham  Martyn 

Man   in  the  Brown   Derby,  The.     By  Welle  Hastings 

Marriage  a  la  Mode.     By  Mrs.  Humphrey  Ward 

Marriage  of  Theodora,  The.     By  Molly  Elliott  Seawell 

Marriage  Under  the  Terror,  A.    By  Patricia  Wentworth. 

Master  Mummer,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Masters  of  the  Wheatlands.    By  Harold  Bindloss. 


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Max.     By  Katherine  Cecil  Thurston. 

Memoirs  of  Sherlock   Holmes.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Millionaire  Baby,  The.     By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Missioner,    The.     By   E.    Phillips   Oppenheim. 

Miss  Selina   Lue.     By  Maria  Thompson  Daviess. 

Mistress  of  Brae  Farm,  The.     By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 

Money  Moon,  The.     By  Jeffery  Farnol. 

Motor  Maid,  The.     By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Much  Ado  About  Peter.    By  Jean  Webster. 

Mr.   Pratt.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

My   Brother's   Keeper.     By  Charles  Tenny  Jackson. 

My  Friend  the  Chauffeur.     By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

My  Lady  Caprice  (author  of  the  "Broad  Higway").    Jeffery  Farna!. 

My  Lady  of   Doubt.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

My  Lady  of  the   North.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

My  Lady  of  the  South.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Mystery  Tales.     By   Edgar  Allen  Poe. 

Nancy  Stair.     By  Elinor  Macartney  Lane. 

Ne'er-Do-Well,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

No  Friend   Like  a  Sister.     By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 

Officer  666.     By  Barton  W.  Currie  and  Augustin  McHugh. 

One   Braver  Thing.     By  Richard  Dehan. 

Order   No.    11.     By   Caroline  Abbot   Stanley. 

Orphan,    The.     By   Clarence   E.    Mulford. 

Out  of  the  Primitive.     By  Robert  Ames  Bennett. 

Pam.     By  Bettina  von   Hutten. 

Pam  Decides.     By  Bettina  von  Hutten. 

Pardners.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Partners  of  the  Tide.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Passage  Perilous,   The.     By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 

Passers   By.    By  Anthony  Partridge. 

Paternoster  Ruby,  The.     By  Charles  Edmonds  Walk. 

Patience  of  John   Moreland,  The.     By  Marv  Dillon. 

Paul    Anthony,   Christian.     By  Hiram  W.   Hays. 

Phillip  Steele.     By  James  Oliver  Curwood. 

Phra  the  Phoenician.     By  Edwin  Lester  Arnold. 

Plunderer,  The.     By  Roy  Norton. 

Pole  Baker.     By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Politician,  The.     By  Edith  Huntington  Mason. 

Polly  of  the  Circus.     By  Margaret  Mayo. 

Pool  of  Flame,  The.     By  Louis  Joseh  Vance. 

Poppy..  By  Cynthia  Stockley. 

Power  and  the  Glory,  The.     By  Grace  McGowan  Cooke. 

Price  of  the  Prairie,  The.     By  Margaret  Hill  McCarter. 

Prince  of  Sinners,  A.    By  E.  Phillis  Oppenheim. 

Prince  or  Chauffeur.     By  Lawrence  Perry. 

Princess  Dehra,  The.     By  John  Reed  Scott. 

Princess  Passes,  The.     By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Princess  Virginia,  The.       By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Prisoners  of  Chance.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Prodigal  Son,  The.    By  Hall  Caine. 

Purple  Parasol,  The.      By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 


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Reconstructed   Marriage,  A.     By  Amelia  Barr. 

Redemption  of  Kenneth  Gait,  The.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Red   House  on   Rowan  Street.    By  Roman  Doubleday. 

Red  Mouse,  The.    By  William  Hamilton  Osborne. 

Red  Pepper  Burns.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Refugees,  The.    By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Rejuvenation  of  Aunt  Mary,  The.    By  Anne  Warner. 

Road  to  Providence,  The.    By  Maria  Thompson  Daviess. 

Romance  of  a   Plain   Man,  The.    By  Ellen  Glasgow. 

Rose  in  the  Ring,  The.     By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Rose  of  Old  Harpeth,  The.     By  Maria  Thompson  Daviess. 

Rose  of  the  World.     By  Agnes  and  Egerton  Castle. 

Round  the  Corner  in  Gay  Street.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Routledge     Rides  Alone.    By  Will  Livingston  Comfort. 

Running    Fight,   The.    By  Wm.   Hamilton  Osborne. 

Seats  of  the   Mighty,  The.    By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Septimus.    By  William  J.  Locke. 

Set  In  Silver.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Self -Raised.     (Illustrated.)     By  Mrs.  Southworth. 

Shepherd  of  the  Hills,  The.    By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Sheriff  of  Dyke  Hole,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Sidney  Carteret,  Rancher.    By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Simon  the  Jester.     By  William  J.  Locke. 

Silver  Blade,  The.    By  Charles  E.  Walk. 

Silver  Horde,  The.    By  Rex  Beach. 

Sir  Nigel.    By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Sir   Richard   Calmady.    By  Lucas  Malet. 

Skyman,  The.     By  Henry  Ketchell  Webster. 

Slim  Princess,  The.    By  George  Ade. 

Speckled  Bird,  A.    By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Spirit   in   Prison,  A.     By  Robert  Hichens. 

Spirit  of  the  Border,  The.    By  Zane  Grey. 

Spirit  Trail,  The.     By  Kate  and  Virgil  D.  Boyles. 

Spoilers,  The.    By  Rex  Beach. 

Stanton  Wins.     By  Eleanor  M.  Ingram. 

St.  Elmo.    (Illustrated  Edition.)     By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 

Stolen  Singer,  The.     By  Martha  Bellinger. 

Stooping   Lady,  The.     By  Maurice  Hewlett. 

Story  of  the  Outlaw,  The,    By  Emerson  Hough. 

Strawberry  Acres.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Strawberry   Handkerchief,  The.     By  Amelia  E.  Barr. 

Sunnyside  of  the  Hill,  The.    By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 

Sunset  Trail,  The.    By  Alfred  Henry  Lewis. 


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Susan  Clegg  and  Her  Friend  Mrs.  Lathrop.     By  Anne  Warner. 

Sword  of  the  Old   Frontier,  A.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Tales  of  Sherlock  Holmes.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Tennessee  Shad,  The.     By  Owen  Johnson. 

Tess  of  the  D'Urbervllles.     By  Thomas  Hardy. 

Texican,  The.     By  Dane  Coolidge. 

That  Printer  of  Udell's.     By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Three  Brothers,  The.     By  Eden  Phillpotts. 

Throwback,  The.     By  Alfred  Henry  Lewis. 

Thurston   of  Orchard   Valley.    By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Title  Market,  The.     By  Emily  Post. 

Torn  Sails.    A  Tale  of  a  Welsh  Village.    By  Allen  Raine. 

Trail  of  the  Axe,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum, 

Treasure  of  Heaven,  The.    By  Marie  Corelli. 

Two-Gun   Man,  The.     By  Charles  Alden  Seltzer. 

Two  Van  revels,  The.     By  Booth  Tarkington. 

Uncle  William.     By  Jennette  Lee. 

Up  from  Slavery.     By  Booker  T.  Washington. 

Vanity  Box,  The.     By  C.  N.  Williamson. 

Vashti.     By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Varmint,  The.    By  Owen  Johnson. 

Vigilante  Girl,  A.     By  Jerome  Hart. 

Village  of  Vagabonds,  A.     By  F.  Berkeley  Smith. 

Visioning,  The.     By  Susan  Glaspell. 

Voice  of  the  People,  The.     By  Ellen  Glasgow. 

Wanted — A  Chaperon.     By  Paul  Leicester  Ford. 

Wanted:  A  Matchmaker.     By  Paul  Leicester  Ford. 

Watchers  of  the  Plains,  The.     Ridgwell  Cullum, 

Wayfarers,   The.     By  Mary  Stewart  Cutting. 

Way  of  a  Man,  The.    By  Emerson  Hough. 

Weavers,  The.    By  Gilbert  Parker. 

When  Wilderness  Was  King.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Where  the  Trail  Divides.     By  Will  Lillibridge. 

White  Sister,  The.     By  Marion  Crawford. 

Window  at  the  White  Cat,  The.    By  Mary  Roberts  Rhinehart, 

Winning  of  Barbara  Worth,   The.    By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 

With  Juliet  in   England.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Woman  Haters,  The.    By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Woman  in  Question,  The.    By  John  Reed  Scott. 

Woman  in  the  Alcove,  The.    By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Yellow  Circle,  The.     By  Charles  E.  Walk. 

Yellow   Letter,  The.     By  William  Johnston. 

Younger  Set,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


FEB  23  1955 


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The  Bandbox. 


V237b 


-         1953 


PS 

351*3 

V237b 


